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LAUREXCE  HOPE, 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


^Mmjl  l^h^L  (}MdM(^ 


Last  Poems 


INDIA'S  LOVE  LYRICS 

Collected    and    arranged    in   verse   by 
Laurence  Hope. 


STARS  OF  THE  DESERT 

By  Laurence    Hope.      Uniform  with 
"India's  Love  Lyrics." 

SONGS  FROM  THE  GARDEN 
OF  KAMA 

By  Laurence  Hope.     Illustrated  from 
photographs  by  Mrs.  Eardley  Wilmot. 


M.r  «s\<v^o  .  Mfs  i\ji^ia,  rUvei^^^.^  ii^ir^j 


TTT 


LAST  POEMS 


TRANSLATIONS  FROM 
THE  BOOK  OF  INDIAN  LOVE 

BY 

(  LAURENCE   HOPE,j:^^j3 

Author  of  "India's  Love  Lyrics,"  '<Stars  of  the  Desert," 
"Songs  from  the  Garden  of  Kama" 


^^^^ 


NEW  YORK:   JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 
LONDON:    WILLIAM    HEINEMANN 

MCMXVIII 


\  ^    I  ^  John  Lane  Company 


■~n 


'"^.^ 


Dedication  to  Malcolm  Nicolson 


/,  who  of  lighter  love  wrote  many  a  verse^ 

Made  public  never  words  inspired  by  thee. 

Lest  strangers'  lips  should  carelessly  rehearse 

'Things  that  were  sacred  and  too  dear  to  me. 

Thy  soul  was  noble ;  through  these  fifteen  years 
Mine  eyes  familiar,  found  no  fleck  nor  flaw. 

Stern  to  thyself,  thy  comrades'  faults  and  fears 
Proved  generosity  thine  only  law. 

Small  joy  was  I  to  thee ;  before  we  met 

Sorrow  had  left  thee  all  too  sad  to  save. 

Useless  my  love  —  as  vain  as  this  regret 

That  pours  my  hopeless  life  across  thy  grave. 

L.  H. 


Contents 

Page 

The  Masters         I 

I  Shall  Forget 4 

The  Lament  of  Yasmini,  the  Dancing-Girl 5 

Among  the  Rice  Fields 9 

The  Bride 10 

Unanswered 12 

The  Net  of  Memory 13 

The  Cactus  Thicket 14 

Song  of  the  Peri 15 

Though  in  my  Firmament  thou  wilt  not  shine 17 

The  Convert 18 

Ashore 19 

Yasin  Khan 20 

Khristna  and  His  Flute 24 

Song  of  Jasoda 26 

Song  of  Ramesram  Temple  Girl 29 

The  Rao  of  Ilore 31 

To  M.  C.  N ^-33 

Disappointment 34 

On  Pilgrimage 37 

The  Rice-boat 38 

Lallji  my  Desire 41 

Rutland  Gate 43 

Atavism 44 

Middle-age 45 


Page 
The  Jungle  Flower     ..•••.•••••••.47 

From  Behind  the  Lattice ...aS 

Wings 45 

Song  of  the  Parao  (Camping-ground)    ......,,,      50 

The  Tom-toms 54 

Written  in  Cananore 56 

Feroke 58 

My  Desire 59 

Sher  Afzul 61 

Nay,  not  To-night 65 

The  Dying  Prince 67 

The  Hut 69 

My  Paramour  was  Loneliness ..70 

The  Rice  was  under  Water 71 

**Surface  Rights" 72 

Shivratri  (the  Night  of  Shiva) 75 

The  First  Wife -jj 

I  Arise  and  go  Down  to  the  River 80 

Listen,  Beloved , 83 

Oh,  Unforgotten  and  Only  Lover  ..,,,,,...87 

Early  Love • 91 

Vayu  the  Wind     .     .     .  " 94 


The  Masters 

Oh,  Masters,  you  who  rule  the  world. 

Will  you  not  wait  with  me  awhile. 
When  swords  are  sheathed  and  sails  are  furled. 

And  all  the  fields  with  harvest  smile  ? 
1  would  not  waste  your  time  for  long, 

I  ask  you  but,  when  you  are  tired. 
To  read  how  by  the  weak,  the  strong 

Are  weighed  and  worshipped  and  desired. 

When  weary  of  the  Mart,  the  Loom, 

The  Withering-house,  the  Riffle-blocks, 
The  Barrack-square,  the  Engine-room, 

The  pick-axe,  ringing  on  the  rocks, — 
When  tents  are  pitched  and  work  is  done. 

While  restful  twilight  broods  above. 
By  fresh-lit  lamp,  or  dying  sun. 

See  in  my  songs  how  women  love. 

We  shared  your  lonely  watch  by  night, 
We  knew  you  faithful  at  the  helm. 

Our  thoughts  went  with  you  through  the  fight. 
That  saved  a  soul,  —  or  wrecked  a  realm 

Ah,  how  our  hearts  leapt  forth  to  you. 

In  pride  and  joy,  when  you  prevailed. 


And  when  you  died,  serene  and  true : 

—  We  wept  in  silence  when  you  failed  1 

Oh,  brain,  that  did  not  gain  the  gold ! 

Oh,  arm,  that  could  not  wield  the  sword, 
Here  is  the  love,  that  is  not  sold. 

Here  are  the  hearts  to  hail  you  Lord ! 

You  played  and  lost  the  game  ?     What  then  ? 

The  rules  are  harsh  and  hard  we  know, 
You,  still.  Oh,  brothers,  are  the  men 

Whom  we  in  secret  reverence  so. 
Your  work  was  waste  ?      Maybe  your  share 

Lay  in  the  hour  you  laughed  and  kissed; 
Who  knows  but  what  your  son  shall  wear 

The  laurels  that  his  father  missed  ? 

Ay,  you  who  win,  and  you  who  lose. 

Whether  you  triumph,  —  or  despair, — 
When  your  returning  footsteps  choose 

The  homeward  track,  our  love  is  there. 
For,  since  the  world  is  ordered  thus. 

To  you  the  fame,  the  stress,  the  sword, 
We  can  but  wait,  until  to  us 

You  give  yourselves,  for  our  reward. 

To  Whaler's  deck  and  Coral  beach. 

To  lonely  Ranch  and  Frontier-Fort, 
Beyond  the  narrow  bounds  of  speech 

I  lay  the  cable  of  my  thought. 


I  fain  would  send  my  thanks  to  you, 

(Though  who  am  I,  to  give  you  praise  ?) 

Since  what  you  are,  and  woric  you  do, 
Are  lessons  for  our  easier  ways. 

'Neath  alien  stars  your  camp-fires  glow, 
I  know  you  not, —  your  tents  are  far. 

My  hope  is  but  in  song  to  show. 

How  honoured  and  how  dear  you  are. 


I  shall  Forget 


Although  my  life,  which  thou  hast  scarred  and  shaken. 
Retains  awhile  some  influence  of  thee, 

As  shells,  by  faithless  waves  long  since  forsaken, 
Still  murmur  with  the  music  of  the  Sea, 

I  shall  forget.      Not  thine  the  haunting  beauty. 

Which,  once  beheld,  for  ever  holds  the  heart. 

Or,  if  resigned  from  stress  of  Fate  or  Duty, 

Takes  part  of  life  away  :  —  the  dearer  part. 

I  gave  thee  love ;  thou  gavest  but  Desire. 

Ah,  the  delusion  of  that  summer  night ! 
Thy  soul  vibrated  at  the  rate  of  Fire; 

Mine,  with  the  rhythm  of  the  waves  of  Light. 

It  is  my  Jove  for  thee  that  I  regret. 

Not  thee,  thyself,  and  hence,  —  I  shall  forget ! 


The  Lament  of  Yasmini,  the  Dancing- 
Girl 

Ah,  what  hast  thou  done  with  that  Lover  of  mine  ? 

The  Lover  who  only  cared  for  thee  ? 
Mine  for  a  handful  of  nights,  and  thine 

For  the  Nights  that  Are  and  the  Days  to  Be, 
The  scent  of  the  Champa  lost  its  sweet  — 

So  sweet  it  was  in  the  Times  that  Were!  — 
Since  His  alone,  of  the  numerous  feet 

That  climb  my  steps,  have  returned  not  there. 
Ahi,  Yasmini,  return  not  there  ! 

Art  thou  yet  athrill  at  the  touch  of  His  hand. 

Art  thou  still  athirst  for  His  waving  hair? 
Nay,  passion  thou  never  couldst  understand. 

Life's  heights  and  depths  thou  wouldst  never  dare. 
The  Great  Things  left  thee  untouched,  unmoved. 

The  Lesser  Things  had  thy  constant  care. 
Ah,  what  hast  thou  done  with  the  Lover  I  loved. 

Who  found  me  wanting,  and  thee  so  fair  ? 
Ahi,  Yasmini,  He  found  her  fair ! 

Nay,  nay,  the  greatest  of  all  was  thine ; 

The  love  of  the  One  whom  I  craved  for  so, 


But  much  I  doubt  if  thou  couldst  aivine 

The  Grace  and  Glory  of  Love,  or  know 
The  worth  of  the  One  whom  thine  arms  embraced. 
jf  I  may  misjudge  thee,  but  who  can  tell? 

I  So  hard  it  is,  for  the  one  displaced, 
\  To  weigh  the  worth  of  a  rival's  spell. 

Ahi,  Yasmini,  thy  rival's  spell ! 

And  Thou,  whom  I  loved  :  have  the  seasons  brought 

That  fair  content,  which  allured  Thee  so  ? 
Is  it  all  that  Thy  delicate  fancy  wrought  ? 

Yasmini  wonders ;  she  may  not  know. 
Yet  never  the  Stars  desert  the  sky, 

To  fade  away  in  the  desolate  Dawn, 
But  Yasmini  watches  their  glory  die. 

And  mourns  for  her  own  Bright  Star  withdrawn. 
Ahi,  Yasmini,  the  lonely  dawn  ! 

Ah,  never  the  lingering  gold  dies  down 

In  a  sunset  flare  of  resplendent  light. 
And  never  the  palm-tree's  feathery  crown 

Uprears  itself  to  the  shadowy  night. 
But  Yasmini  thinks  of  those  evenings  past. 

When  she  prayed  the  glow  of  the  glimmering  West 
To  vanish  quickly,  that  night,  at  last. 

Might  bring  Thee  back  to  her  waiting  breast. 
Ahi,  Yasmini,  how  sweet  that  rest ! 

Yet  I  would  not  say  that  I  always  weep ; 

The  force,  that  made  such  a  desperate  thing 

6 


Of  my  love  for  Thee,  has  not  fallen  asleep, 
The  blood  still  leaps,  and  the  senses  sing, 

While  other  passion  has  oft  availed. 

(Other  Love  —  Ah,  my  One,  forgive  ! — ) 

To  aid,  when  Churus  and  Opium  failed ;  — 
I  could  not  suffer  so  much  and  live. 

Ahi,  Yasmini,  who  had  to  live ! 


/ 


Nay,  why  should  I  say  "  Forgive  "  to  Thee  ? 

To  whom  my  lovers  and  I  are  naught. 
Who  granted  some  passionate  nights  to  me. 

Then  rose  and  left  me  with  never  a  thought ! 
And  yet.  Ah,  yet,  for  those  Nights  that  Were, 

Thy  passive  limbs  and  thy  loose  loved  hair, 
I  would  pay,  as  I  have  paid,  all  these  days. 

With  the  love  that  kills  and  the  thought  that  slays. 
Ahi,  Yasmini,  thy  youth  it  slays  ! 

The  youthful  widow,  with  shaven  hair, 

Whose  senses  ache  for  the  love  of  a  man. 
The  young  Priest,  knowing  that  women  are  fair. 

Who  stems  his  longing  as  best  he  can. 
These  suffer  not  as  I  suffer  for  Thee ; 

For  the  Soul  desires  what  the  senses  crave, 
There  will  never  be  pleasure  or  peace  for  me, 

Since  He  who  wounded,  alone  could  save. 
Ahi,  Yasmini,  He  will  not  save ! 

The  torchlight  flares,  and  the  lovers  lean 
Towards  Yasmini,  with  yearning  eyes, 

7 


Who  dances,  wondering  what  they  mean, 

And  gives  cold  kisses,  and  scant  replies. 
They  talk  of  Love,  she  withholds  the  name, — 

(Love  came  to  her  as  a  Flame  of  Fire  ! ) 
From  things  that  are  only  a  weary  shame  j 

Trivial  Vanity  ;  —  light  Desire. 

Ahi,  Yasmini,  the  light  Desire  ! 

Yasmini  bends  to  the  praise  of  men. 

And  looks  in  the  mirror,  upon  her  hand,^ 
To  curse  the  beauty  that  failed  her  then  — 

Ah,  none  of  her  lovers  can  understand  ! 
How  her  whole  life  hung  on  that  beauty's  power. 

The  spell  that  waned  at  the  final  test, 
The  charm  that  paled  in  the  vital  hour, — 

Which  won  so  many,  —  yet  lost  the  best! 
Ahi,  Yasmini,  who  lost  the  best ! 

She  leaves  the  dancing  to  reach  the  roof. 

With  the  lover  who  claims  the  passing  hour, 
Her  lips  are  his,  but  her  eyes  aloof 

While  the  starlight  falls  in  a  silver  shower. 
Let  him  take  what  pleasure,  what  love,  he  may, 

He,  too,  will  suffer  e'er  life  be  spent,  — 
But  Yasmini's  soul  has  wandered  away 

To  join  the  Lover,  who  came,  —  and  went ! 
Ahi,  Yasmini,  He  came,  —  and  went ! 

^  Indian  women  wear  a  small  mirror  in  a  ring  on  their  thumbs. 


8 


Among  the  Rice  Fields 

She  was  fair  as  a  Passion-flower,  i 

(But  little  of  love  he  knew.) 
Her  lucent  eyes  were  like  amber  wine, 

And  her  eyelids  stained  with  blue. 

He  called  them  the  Gates  of  Fair  Desire, 
And  the  Lakes  where  Beauty  lay. 

But  I  looked  into  them  once,  and  saw 
The  eyes  of  Beasts  of  Prey. 

He  praised  her  teeth,  that  were  small  and  white 

As  lilies  upon  his  lawn. 
While  I  remembered  a  tiger's  fangs 

That  met  in  a  speckled  fawn. 

She  had  her  way ;  a  lover  the  more. 

And  I  had  a  friend  the  less. 
For  long  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait 

And  suffer  his  happiness. 

But  now  I  shall  choose  the  sharpest  Kriss 

And  nestle  it  in  her  breast. 
For  dead,  he  is  drifting  down  to  sea,  I 

And  his  own  hand  wrought  his  rest  f 


9 


The  Bride 

Beat  on  the  Tom-toms,  and  scatter  the  flowers, 

Jasmin,  Hibiscus,  vermillion  and  white, 
This  is  the  day,  and  the  Hour  of  Hours, 

Bring  forth  the  Bride  for  her  Lover's  delight. 
Maidens  no  more,  as  a  maiden  shall  claim  her, 

Near,  in  his  Mystery,  draweth  Desire. 
Who,  if  she  waver  a  moment,  shall  blame  her  ? 

She  is  a  flower,  and  love  is  a  fire. 

Choti  Tinchaurya  syani  hogayi 

Give  her  the  anklets,  the  rings  and  the  necklace, 

Darken  her  eyelids  with  delicate  Art, 
Heighten  the  beauty,  so  youthful  and  fleckless. 

By  the  Gods  favoured,  oh.  Bridegroom  thou  art ! 
Twine  in  thy  fingers  her  fingers  so  slender, 

Circle  together  the  Mystical  Fire, 
Bridegroom,  —  a  whisper  —  be  gentle  and  tender, 

Choti  Tinchaurya  knows  not  desire. 

Abhi  Tinchaurya  syani  hogayi! 

Bring  forth  the  silks  and  the  veil  that  shall  cover 
Beauty,  till  yesterday,  careless  and  wild, 

*  Anglice :  Little  Tinchaurya  has  grown  up. 

lO 


Ivcd  are  her  lips  for  the  kiss  of  a  lover, 

Ripe  are  her  breasts  for  the  lips  of  a  child. 

Centre  and  Shrine  of  Mysterious  Power, 

Chalice  of  Pleasure  and  Rose  of  Delight, 

Shyly  aware  of  the  swift-coming  hour, 

Waiting  the  shade  and  the  silence  of  night, 

Choti  Tinchaurya  syani  hogayi ! 

Still  must  the  Bridegroom  his  longing  dissemble, 

Longing  to  loosen  the  silk-woven  cord. 
Ah,  how  his  lingers  will  flutter  and  tremble, 

Fingers  well  skilled  vi'ith  the  bridle  and  sword. 
Thine  is  his  valour  oh,  Bride,  and  his  beauty. 

Thine  to  possess  and  re-issue  again, 
Such  is  thy  tender  and  passionate  duty. 

Licit  thy  pleasure  and  honoured  thy  pain. 

Choti  Tinchaurya  syani  hogayi ! 

Choti  Tinchaurya,  lovely  and  tender. 

Still  all  unbroken  to  sorrow  and  strife. 
Come  to  the  Bridegroom  who,  silk-clad  and  slender. 

Brings  thee  the  Honour  and  Burden  of  Life. 
Bidding  farewell  to  thy  light-hearted  playtime. 

Worship  thy  Lover  with  fear  and  delight. 
Art  thou  not  ever,  though  slave  of  his  daytime, 

Choti  Tinchaurya,  queen  of  his  night  ? 

Choti  Tinchaurya  syani  hogayi ! 


iz 


Unanswered 

Something  compels  me,  somewhere.     Yet  I  see 
No  clear  command  in  Life's  long  mystery. 

Oft  have  I  flung  myself  beside  my  horse, 

To  drink  the  water  from  the  roadside  mire, 

And  felt  the  liquid  through  my  being  course. 
Stilling  the  anguish  of  my  thirst's  desire. 

A  simple  want ;  so  easily  allayed  ; 

After  the  burning  march ;  water  and  shade. 

Also  I  lay  against  the  loved  one's  heart 

Finding  fulfilment  in  that  resting-place. 

Feeling  my  longing,  quenched,  was  but  a  part 
Of  nature's  ceaseless  striving  for  the  race. 

But  now,  I  know  not  what  they  would  with  me  j 
Matter  or  Force  or  God,  if  Gods  there  be. 

I  wait ;  I  question  ;  Nature  heeds  me  not. 

She  does  but  urge  in  answer  to  my  prayer, 
"  Arise  and  do  !  "     Alas,  she  adds  not  what ; 

"  Arise  and  go  !  "     Alas,  she  says  not  where  ! 


12 


The  Net  of  Memory 

I  CAST  the  Net  of  Memory, 

Man's  torment  and  delight, 

Over  the  level  Sands  of  Youth 

That  lay  serenely  bright, 

Their  tranquil  gold  at  times  submerged 

In  the  Spring  Tides  of  Love's  Delight. 

The  Net  brought  up,  in  silver  gleams. 
Forgotten  truth  and  fancies  fair : 
Like  opal  shells,  small  happy  facts 
Within  the  Net  entangled  were 
With  the  red  coral  of  his  lips. 
The  waving  seaweed  of  his  hair. 

We  were  so  young;  he  was  so  fair. 


13 


The  Cactus  Thicket 

"The  Atlas  summits  were  veiled  in  purple  gloom, 
But  a  golden  moon  above  rose  clear  and  free. 

The  cactus  thicket  was  ruddy  with  scarlet  bloom 

Where,  through  the  silent  shadow,  he  came  to  me.'' 

"All  my  sixteen  summers  were  but  for  this,^ 

That  He  should  pass,  and,  pausing,  find  me  fair. 

You  Stars  !   bear  golden  witness  !      My  hps  were  his  ; 
I  would  not  live  till  others  have  fastened  there." 

"  Oh,  take  me,  Death,  ere  ever  the  charm  shall  fade. 

Ah,  close  these  eyes,  ere  ever  the  dream  grow  dim. 

I  welcome  thee  with  rapture,  and  unafraid. 
Even  as  yesternight  I  welcomed  Him." 

***** 

"Not  now.  Impatient  one;  it  well  may  be 
That  ten  moons  hence  I  shall  return  for  thee." 


14 


Song  of  the  Peri 


Beauty,  the  Gift  of  Gifts,  I  give  to  thee. 

Pleasure  and  love  shall  spring  around  thy  feet 
As  through  the  lake  the  lotuses  arise 

Pinkly  transparent  and  divinely  sweet. 

I  give  thee  eyes  aglow  like  morning  stars. 
Delicate  brows,  a  mist  of  sable  tresses, 

That  all  the  journey  of  thy  Hfe  may  be 

Lit  up  by  love  and  softened  by  caresses. 

For  those  who  once  were  proud  and  softly  bred 
Shall,  kneeling,  wait  thee  as  thou  passest  1'/, 

They  who  were  pure  shall  stretch  forth  eager  hands 
Crying,  "  Thy  pity,  Lord,  before  we  die  !  " 

And  one  shall  murmur,  "  If  the  sun  at  dawn 
Shall  open  and  caress  a  happy  flower, 

What  blame  to  him,  although  the  blossom  fade 

In  the  full  splendour  of  his  noontide  power  ?  " 

And  one,  "  If  aloes  close  together-  grow 

It  well  may  chance  a  plant  shall  wounded  be, 

15 


Pierced  by  the  thorntips  of  another's  leaves, 
Thus  am  I  hurt  unconsciously  by  thee." 

For  some  shall  die  and  many  more  shall  sin, 

Suffering  for  thy  sake  till  seven  times  seven, 

Because  of  those  most  perfect  lips  of  thine 

Which  held  the  power  to  make  or  mar  their  heaven. 

And  though  thou  givest  back  but  cruelty. 

Their  love,  persistent,  shall  not  heed  nor  care. 

All  those  whose  ears  are  fed  with  blame  of  thee 
Shall  say,  "  It  may  be  so,  but  he  was  fair." 

Ay,  those  who  lost  the  whole  of  youth  for  thee. 
Made  early  and  for  ever,  shamed  and  sad, 

Shall  sigh,  re-living  some  sweet  memory, 

"Ah,  once  it  was  his  will  to  make  me  glad." 

Thy  nights  shall  be  as  bright  as  summer  days, 

The  sequence  of  thy  sins  shall  seem  as  duty. 

Since  I  have  given  thee.  Oh,  Gift  of  Gifts  !  — 
The  pale  perfection  of  unrivalled  beauty. 


i6 


Though  in  my  Firmament  thou  wilt 
not  shine 

Talk  not,  my  Lord,  of  unrequited  love. 

Since  love  requites  itself  most  royally. 
Do  we  not  live  but  by  the  sun  above, 

And  takes  he  any  heed  of  thee  or  me  ? 

Though  in  my  firmament  thou  wilt  not  shine, 

Thy  glory,  as  a  Star,  is  none  the  less. 
Oh,  Rose,  though  all  unplucked  by  hand  of  mine. 

Still  am  I  debtor  to  thy  loveliness. 


The  Convert 

The  sun  was  hot  on  the  tamarind  trees, 

Their  shadows  shrivelled  and  shrank. 
No  coolness  came  on  the  ofF-shore  breeze 

That  rattled  the  scrub  on  the  bank. 
She  stretched  her  appealing  arms  to  me, 
Uplifting  the  Flagon  of  Love  to  me, 
Till  —  great  indeed  was  my  unslaked  thirst  — 
I  paused,  I  stooped,  and  I  drank  ! 

I  went  with  my  foe  to  the  edge  of  the  crater,  - 
But  one  to  return,  we  knew, — 

The  lava's  heat  had  never  been  greater 
Than  the  ire  between  us  two. 

He  flung  back  his  head  and  he  mocked  at  me, 

He  spat  unspeakable  words  at  me, 

Our  eyes  met,  and  our  knives  met, 
I  saw  red,  and  I  slew ! 

Such  were  my  deeds  when  my  youth  was  hot, 
And  force  was  new  to  my  hand. 

With  many  more  that  I  tell  thee  not, 
Well  known  in  my  native  land. 

xS 


These  show  thy  Christ  when  thou  prayest  to  Him, 
He  too  was  a  man  thou  sayest  of  Him, 
Therefore  He,  when  I  reach  His  feet, 
Will  remember,  and  understand. 


19 


Ashore 

Out  I  came  from  the  dancing-place: 
The  night-wind  met  me  face  to  face  — 

A  wind  off  the  harbour,  cold  and  keen, 

"  I  know,"  it  whistled,  "  where  thou  hast  been." 

A  faint  voice  fell  from  the  stars  above  — 

"  Thou  ?  whom  we  lighted  to  shrines  of  Love  !  " 

I  found  when  I  reached  my  lonely  room 
A  faint  sweet  scent  in  the  unlit  gloom. 

And  this  was  the  worst  of  all  to  bear, 
For  someone  had  left  white  lilac  there. 

The  flower  you  loved,  in  times  that  were. 


so 


Yasin  Khan 

Ay,  thou  hast  found  thy  kingdom,  YasIn  Khan, 

Thy  fathers'  pomp  and  power  are  thine,  at  last. 

No  more  the  rugged  roads  of  Khorasan, 

The  scanty  food  and  tentage  of  the  past ! 

Wouldst  thou  make  war  ?  thy  followers  know  no  fear. 
Where  shouldst  thou  lead  them  but  to  victory  ? 

Wouldst  thou  have  love  ?  thy  soft-eyed  slaves  draw  near, 
Eager  to  drain  thy  strength  away  from  thee. 

Mv  thoughts  drag  backwards  to  forgotten  days. 

To  scenes  etched  deeply  on  my  heart  by  pain ; 

The  thirsty  marches,  ambuscades,  and  frays. 

The  hostile  hills,  the  burnt  and  barren  plain. 

Hast  thou  forgotten  how  one  night  was  spent. 
Crouched  in  a  camel's  carcase  by  the  road, 

Along  which  Akbar's  soldiers,  scouting,  went. 
And  he  himself,  all  unsuspecting,  rode  ? 

Did  we  not  waken  one  despairing  dawn. 

Attacked  in  front,  cut  off  in  rear,  by  snow. 

Till,  like  a  tiger  leaping  on  a  fawn. 

Half  of  the  hill  crashed  down  upon  the  foe  ? 

21 


Once,  as  thou  mournd'st  thy  lifeless  brother's  fate, 
The  red  tears  falling  from  thy  shattered  wrist, 

A  spent  Waziri,  forceful  still,  in  hate. 

Covered  thy  heart,  ten  paces  off,  —  and  missed ! 

Ahi,  men  thrust  a  worn  and  dinted  sword 

Into  a  velvet-scabbarded  repose  ; 
The  gilded  pageants  that  salute  thee  Lord 

Cover  one  sorrow-rusted  heart,  God  knows. 

Ah,  to  exchange  this  wealth  of  idle  days 

For  one  cold  reckless  night  of  Khorasan  ! 

To  crouch  once  more  before  the  camp-fire  blaze 
That  lit  the  lonely  eyes  of  Yasin  Khan. 

To  watch  the  starlight  glitter  on  the  snows. 

The  plain  stretched  round  us  like  a  waveless  sea, 

Waiting  until  thy  weary  lids  should  close 

To  slip  my  furs  and  spread  them  over  thee. 

How  the  wind  howled  about  the  lonely  pass. 

While  the  faint  snow-shine  of  that  plateaued  space 

Lit,  where  it  lay  upon  the  frozen  grass. 

The  mournful,  tragic  beauty  of  thy  face. 

Thou  hast  enough  caressed  the  scented  hair 

Of  these  soft-breasted  girls  who  waste  thee  so. 

Hast  thou  not  sons  for  every  adult  year  ? 
Let  us  arise,  O  Yasin  Khan,  and  go ! 

22 


Let  us  escape  from  out  these  prison  bars 
To  gain  the  freedom  of  an  open  sky, 

Thv  soul  and  mine,  alone  beneath  the  stars. 
Intriguing  danger,  as  in  days  gone  by. 

Nay;  there  is  no  returning,  Yasin  Khan. 

The  white  peaks  ward  the  passes,  as  of  yore. 
The  wind  sweeps  o'er  the  wastes  of  Khorasan  ;  — 

But  thou  and  I  go  thitherward  no  more. 

Close,  ah,  too  close,  the  bitter  knowledge  clings, 
We  may  not  follow  where  my  fancies  yearn. 

The  years  go  hence,  and  wild  and  lovely  things. 
Their  own,  go  with  them,  never  to  return. 


23 


Khristna  and  His  Flute 

(Translation  by  Moolchand) 

Be  still,  my  heart,  and  listen, 

For  sweet  and  yet  acute 
I  hear  the  wistful  music 

Of  Khristna  and  his  flute. 
Across  the  cool,  blue  evenings. 

Throughout  the  burning  days. 
Persuasive  and  beguiling, 

He  plays  and  plays  and  plays. 

Ah,  none  may  hear  such  music 

Resistant  to  its  charms. 
The  household  work  grows  weary, 

And  cold  the  husband's  arms. 
I  must  arise  and  follow. 

To  seek,  in  vain  pursuit. 
The  blueness  and  the  distance. 

The  sweetness  of  that  flute  I 

In  linked  and  liquid  sequence. 
The  plaintive  notes  dissolve 

Divinely  tender  secrets 

That  none  but  he  can  solve. 


Oh,  Khristna,  I  am  coming, 

I  can  no  more  delay. 
"  My  heart  has  flown  to  join  thee," 

How  shall  my  footsteps  stay? 

Beloved,  such  thoughts  have  peril ; 

The  wish  is  in  my  mind 
That  I  had  fired  the  jungle. 

And  left  no  leaf  behind,  — 
Burnt  all  bamboos  to  ashes. 

And  made  their  music  mute, — 
To  save  thee  from  the  magic 

Of  Khristna  and  his  flute. 


25 


Song  of  Jasoda 


Had  I  been  young  I  could  have  claimed  to  fold  thee 
For  many  days  against  my  eager  breast ; 

But,  as  things  are,  how  can  I  hope  to  hold  thee 

Once  thou  hast  wakened  from  this  fleeting  rest  ? 

Clear  shone  the  moonlight,  so  that  thou  couldst  find  me, 
Yet  not  so  clear  that  thou  couldst  see  my  face. 

Where  in  the  shadow  of  the  palms  behind  me 
I  waited  for  thy  steps,  for  thy  embrace. 

What  reck  I  now  my  morning  life  was  lonely  ? 

For  widowed  feet  the  ways  are  always  rough. 
Though  thou  hast  come  to  me  at  sunset  only. 

Still  thou  hast  come,  my  Lord,  it  is  enough. 

Ah,  mine  no  more  the  glow  of  dawning  beauty. 
The  fragrance  and  the  dainty  gloss  of  youth, 

Worn  by  long  years  of  solitude  and  duty, 
I  have  no  bloom  to  offer  thee  in  truth. 

Yet,  since  these  eyes  of  mine  have  never  wandered. 
Still  may  they  gleam  with  long  forgotten  light. 

Since  in  no  wanton  way  my  youth  was  squandered. 
Some  sense  of  youth  still  clings  to  me  to-night. 

26 


Thy  lips  are  fresh  as  dew  on  budding  roses, 

The  gold  of  dawn  still  lingers  in  thy  hair, 

While  the  abandonment  of  sleep  discloses 
How  every  attitude  of  youth  is  fair. 

Thou  art  so  pale,  I  hardly  dare  caress  thee, 

Too  brown  my  fingers  show  against  the  white. 

Ahi,  the  glory,  that  I  should  possess  thee, 
Ahi,  the  grief,  but  for  a  single  night ! 

The  tulip  tree  has  pallid  golden  flowers 

That  grow  more  rosy  as  their  petals  fade ; 

Such  is  the  splendour  of  my  evening  hours 

Whose  time  of  youth  was  wasted  in  the  shade. 

I  shall  not  wait  to  see  to-morrow's  morning, 

Too  bright  the  golden  dawn  for  me,  —  too  bright,  — 

How  could  I  bear  thine  eyes'  unconscious  scorning 
Of  what  so  pleased  thee  in  the  dimmer  light  ? 

It  may  be  wine  had  brought  some  brief  illusion. 

Filling  thy  brain  with  rainbow  fantasy. 
Or  youth,  with  moonlight,  making  sweet  collusion, 

Threw  an  alluring  glamour  over  me. 

Therefore  I  leave  thee  softly,  to  awaken 

When  the  first  sun  rays  warm  thy  blue-veined  breast, 
Smiling  and  all  unknowing  I  have  taken 

The  poppled  drink  that  brings  me  endless  rest. 

27 


Thus  would  I  have  thee  rise ;  thy  fancy  laden 

With  the  vague  sweetness  of  the  bygone  night, 

Thinking  of  me  as  some  consenting  maiden, 

Whose  beauty  blossomed  first  for  thy  delight. 

While  I,  if  any  kindly  visions  hover 

Around  the  silence  of  my  last  repose. 

Shall  dream  of  thee,  my  pale  and  radiant  lover. 
Who  made  my  life  so  lovely  at  its  close ! 


28 


Song  of  Ramesram  Temple  Girl 

Now  is  the  season  of  my  youth. 

Not  thus  shall  I  always  be, 
Listen,  dear  Lord,  thou  too  art  young, 

Take  thy  pleasure  with  me. 
My  hair  is  straight  as  the  falling  rain, 

And  fine  as  morning  mist, 
I  am  a  rose  awaiting  thee 

That  none  have  touched  or  kissed. 


Do  as  thou  wilt  with  mine  and  me. 
Beloved,  I  only  pray, 

Follow  the  promptings  of  thy  youth. 
Let  there  be  no  delay  ! 

A  leaf  that  flutters  upon  the  bough, 

A  moment,  and  it  is  gone, — 
A  bubble  amid  the  fountain  spray, — 

Ah,  pause,  and  think  thereon ; 
For  such  is  youth  and  its  passing  bloom 

That  wait  for  thee  this  hour. 
If  aught  in  thy  heart  incline  to  me 

Ah,  stoop  and  pluck  thy  flower ! 

29 


Come,  my  Lord,  to  the  temple  shade, 
Where  cooling  fountains  play, 

If  aught  in  thy  heart  incline  to  love 
Let  there  be  no  delay  ! 

Many  shall  faint  with  love  of  me 

And  I  shall  slake  their  thirst, 
But  Fate  has  brought  thee  hither  to-day 

That  thou  shouldst  be  the  first. 
Old,  so  old  are  the  temple-walls, 

Love  is  older  than  they  ; 
But  I  am  the  short-lived  temple  rose, 

Blooming  for  thee  to-day. 

Thine  am  I,  Prince,  and  only  thine, 
What  is  there  more  to  say  ? 

If  aught  in  thy  heart  incline  to  love 
Let  there  be  no  delay  ! 


30 


The  Rao  of  Ilore 

I  WAS  sold  to  the  Rao  of  Ilore, 

Slender  and  tall  was  he. 
When  his  litter  carried  him  down  the  street 
I  peeped  through  the  thatch  to  see. 

Ah,  the  eyes  of  the  Rao  of  Ilore, 
My  lover  that  was  to  be  ! 

The  hair  that  lay  on  his  youthful  brow 

Was  curled  like  an  ocean  wave ; 
His  eyes  were  lit  with  a  tender  smile. 

But  his  lips  were  soft  and  grave. 
For  sake  of  these  things  I  was  still  with  joy 

When  the  silver  coins  were  paid, 
And  they  took  me  up  to  the  Palace  gates, 

Delighted  and  unafraid. 

Ah,  the  eyes  of  the  Rao  of  Ilore, 
May  never  their  brilliance  fade  ! 

So  near  was  I  to  the  crown  of  life ! 

Ten  thousand  times,  alas  ! 
The  Diwan  leant  from  the  latticed  hall. 

Looked  down  and  saw  me  pass. 
He  begged  for  me  from  the  Rao  of  Ilore, 

Who  answered,  "  She  is  thine, 

31 


Thou  wert  ever  more  than  a  father  to  me, 
And  thy  desires  are  mine." 

Ah,  the  eyes  of  the  Rao  of  Ilore 
That  never  had  looked  in  mine! 

My  years  were  spent  in  the  Diwan's  Courts, 

My  youth  died  dovv^n  that  day. 
For  sake  of  thine  own  content  of  mind 

My  lost  beloved,  I  pray 
That  never  my  Lord  a  love  may  know 
Like  that  he  threw  away. 

Ah,  the  eyes  of  the  Rao  of  Ilore, 
Who  threw  my  life  away  ! 


3« 


To  M.  C.  N. 

Thou  hast  no  wealth,  nor  any  pride  of  power, 
Thy  life  is  offered  on  affection's  altar. 

Small  sacrifices  claim  thee,  hour  by  hour. 

Yet  on  the  tedious  path  thou  dost  not  falter. 

To  the  unknowing,  well  thy  days  might  seem 
Circled  by  solitude  and  tireless  duty. 

Yet  is  thy  soul  made  radiant  by  a  dream 

Of  delicate  and  rainbow-coloured  beauty. 

Never  a  flower  trembles  in  the  wind, 
Never  a  sunset  lingers  on  the  sea, 

But  something  of  its  fragrance  joins  thy  mind. 
Some  sparkle  of  its  light  remains  with  thee. 

Thus  when  thy  spirit  enters  on  its  rest. 

Thy  lips  shall  say,  "  I  too  have  known  the  best !  * 


33 


Disappointment 


Oh,  come,  Beloved,  before  my  beauty  fades, 
Pity  the  sorrow  of  my  loneliness. 

I  am  a  Rosebush  that  the  Cypress  shades, 

No  sunbeams  find  or  lighten  my  distress. 

Daily  I  watch  the  waning  of  my  bloom. 

Ah,  piteous  fading  of  a  thing  so  fair ! 
While  Fate,  remorseless,  weaving  at  her  loom, 

Twines  furtive  silver  in  my  twisted  hair. 

This  noon  I  watched  a  tremulous  fading  rose 
Rise  on  the  wind  to  court  a  butterfly. 

"  One  speck  of  pollen,  ere  my  petals  close. 

Bring  me  one  touch  of  love  before  I  die  ! " 

But  the  gay  butterfly,  who  had  the  power 

To  grant,  refused,  flew  far  across  the  dell, 

And,  as  he  fertilised  a  younger  flower, 

The  petals  of  the  rose,  defrauded,  fell. 

Such  was  my  fate,  thou  hast  not  come  to  me, 

Thine  eyes  are  absent,  and  thy  voice  is  mute. 

Though  I  am  slim,  as  this  Papaya  tree. 

With  breasts  out-pointing,  even  as  its  fruit. 

34 


Beauty  was  mine,  it  brought  me  no  caress, 

My  lips  were  red,  yet  there  were  none  to  taste, 

I  saw  my  youth  consume  in  loneliness, 

And  all  the  fervour  of  my  heart  run  waste. 

While  I  still  hoped  that  Thou  would'st  come  to  me, 
I  and  the  garden  waited  for  their  Lord. 

Here  He  will  rest,  beneath  this  Champa  tree ; 

Hence,  all  ye  spike-set  grasses  from  the  sward  ! 

In  this  cool  rillet  I  shall  bathe  His  feet. 

Come,  rounded  pebbles  from  a  smoother  shore. 

This  is  the  honey  that  His  lips  will  eat. 

Hasten,  O  bees,  enhance  the  amber  store ! 

Ripen,  ye  Custard  Apples,  round  and  fair. 

Practise  your  songs,  O  Bulbuls,  on  the  bough, 

Surely  some  sweeter  sweetness  haunts  the  air; 
Maybe  His  feet  draw  near  us,  even  now ! 

Disperse,  ye  fireflies,  clustered  on  the  palm. 

Love  heeds  no  lamp,  he  welcomes  moonless  skies 

Soon  shall  ye  find,  O  stars,  serene  and  calm. 
Your  sparkling  rivals  in  my  lover's  eyes  ! 

Closely  I  wove  my  leafy  Jasmin  bowers. 

Hoping  to  hide  my  pleasure  and  my  shame, 

Where  the  Lantana's  indecisive  flowers 

Vary  from  palest  rose  to  orange  flame. 

Ay,  there  were  lovely  hours,  'neath  fern  and  palm. 
Almost  my  aching  longing  I  forgot. 

35 


White  nights  of  silence,  noons  of  golden  calm, 
All  past,  all  wasted,  since  Thou  earnest  not ! 

Night  after  night  the  Champa  trees  distilled 
Their  cruel  sweetness  on  the  careless  air. 

Noon  after  noon  I  watched  the  Bulbuls  build, 

And  saw  with  hungry  eyes  the  Sun-birds  pair. 

None  came,  and  none  will  come;  no  use  to  wait, — 
Youth's  fragrance  dies,  its  tender  light  dies  down. 

I  will  arise,  before  it  grows  too  late. 

And  seek  the  noisy  brilliance  of  the  town. 

These  many  waiting  years  I  longed  for  gold. 
Now  must  I  needs  console  me  with  alloy. 

Before  this  beauty  fades,  this  pulse  grows  cold, 
I  may  not  love,  I  will  at  least  enjoy  ! 

Farewell,  my  Solitude  of  scented  flowers. 

Across  whose  glades  the  emerald  parrots  gleam, 

Haunt  of  false  hope,  and  home  of  wasted  hours, 

I  am  awake,  at  last,  —  Guard  thou  the  dream  ! 


36 


On  Pilgrimage 

Oh,  youthful  bearer  of  my  palanquin, 

Thy  glossy  hair  lies  loosened  on  thy  neck. 

The  "  tears  of  labour  "  gem  thy  velvet  skin. 

Whose  even  texture  knows  no  other  fleck. 

Thy  slender  shoulder  strains  beneath  my  weight ; 

Too  fair  thou  art  for  work,  sweet  slave  of  mine. 
Would  that  this  idle  breast,  reversing  fate, 

A  willing  serf  to  love,  supported  thine ! 

I  smell  the  savage  scent  of  sun-warmed  fur 

Close  in  the  Jungle,  musky,  hot  and  sweet.  — 

The  air  comes  from  thy  shoulder,  even  as  myrrh, 
Would  we  were  as  the  panthers,  free  to  meet. 

The  Temple  road  is  steep;  I  grieve  to  see 

Thy  slender  ankles  bruised  among  the  clods. 

Oh,  my  Beloved,  if  I  might  worship  thee  ! 
Beauty  is  greater  far  than  all  the  Gods. 


37 


The  Rice-boat 

I  SLEPT  upon  the  Rice-boat 

That,  reef  protected,  lay 
At  anchor,  where  the  palm-trees 

Infringe  upon  the  bay. 
The  windless  air  was  heavy 

With  cinnamon  and  rose. 
The  midnight  calm  seemed  waiting, 

Too  fateful  for  repose. 

One  joined  me  on  the  Rice-boat 

With  wild  and  waving  hair. 
Whose  vivid  words  and  laughter 

Awoke  the  silent  air. 
Oh,  beauty,  bare  and  shining. 

Fresh  washen  in  the  bay, 
One  well  may  love  by  moonlight 

What  one  would  not  love  by  day  ! 

Above  among  the  cordage 

The  night  wind  hardly  stirred, 

The  lapping  of  the  ripples 

Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 

3S 


Love  reigned  upon  the  Rice-boat, 
And  Peace  controlled  the  sea, 

The  spirit's  consolation. 
The  senses'  ecstasy. 

Though  many  things  and  mighty 

Are  furthered  in  the  West, 
The  ancient  Peace  has  vanished 

Before  To-day's  unrest. 
For  hovi^  among  their  striving, 

Their  gold,  their  lust,  their  drink, 
Shall  men  find  time  for  dreaming 

Or  any  space  to  think  ? 

Think  not  I  scorn  the  Science 

That  lightens  human  pain  ; 
Though  man's  reliance  often 

Is  placed  on  it  in  vain. 
Maybe  the  long  endeavour. 

The  patience  and  the  strife. 
May  some  day  solve  the  riddle, 

The  Mystery  of  Life. 

Perchance  I  do  not  value 

Things  Western  as  I  ought, 
The  trains,  —  that  take  us,  whither  ? 

The  ships,  —  that  reach,  what  port  ? 
To  me  it  seems  but  chaos 

Of  greed  and  haste  and  rage. 
The  endless,  aimless,  motion 

Of  squirrels  in  a  cage. 

Z9 


Here,  where  some  ruined  temple 

In  solitude  decays, 
With  carven  walls  still  hallowed 

With  prayers  of  bygone  days. 
Here,  where  the  coral  outcrops 

Make  "  flowers  of  the  sea," 
The  olden  Peace  yet  lingers. 

In  hushed  serenity. 

Ah,  silent,  silver  moonlight, 

Whose  charm  impartial  falls 
On  tanks  of  sacred  water 

And  squalid  city  walls. 
Whose  mystic  whiteness  hallows 

The  lowest  and  the  least. 
To  thee  men  owe  the  glamour 

That  draws  them  to  the  East. 

And  as  this  azure  water, 

Unflecked  by  wave  or  foam. 
Conceals  in  its  tranquillity 

The  dreaded  white  shark's  home, 
So  if  love  be  illusion 

I  ask  the  dream  to  stay. 
Content  to  love  by  moonlight 

What  I  might  not  love  by  day. 


40 


Lallji  my  Desire 


"  This  is  no  time  for  saying  '  no '  '* 

Were  thy  last  words  to  me, 
And  yet  my  lips  refused  the  kiss 
They  might  have  given  thee. 

Hou'  could  I  know 
That  thou  wouldst  go 
To  sleep  so  far  from  me  ? 

They  took  thee  to  the  Burning-Ghat, 

Oh,  Lallji,  my  desire, 
And  now  a  faint  and  lonely  flame 

Uprises  from  the  pyre. 
The  thin  grey  smoke  in  spirals  drifts 

Across  the  opal  sky. 
Would  that  I  were  a  wife  of  thine. 
And  thus  with  thee  could  die  ! 

How  could  I  know 
That  thou  wouldst  go. 
Oh,  Lallji,  my  desire? 
The  lips  I  missed 
The  flames  have  kissed 
Upon  the  Sandal  pyre. 

41 


If  one  should  meet  me  with  a  knife 

And  cut  my  heart  in  twain, 
Then  would  he  see  the  smoke  arise 

From  every  severed  vein. 
Such  is  the  burning,  inward  fire, 

The  anguish  of  my  pain, 
For  my  Beloved,  whose  dying  lips 
Implored  a  kiss  —  in  vain  ! 

How  could  I  know 
That  thou  wouldst  go. 
Oh,  Lallji,  my  desire  ? 
Too  young  thou  art 
To  lay  thy  heart 
Upon  the  Sandal  pyre. 

Thy  wife  awaits  her  coming  child ; 

What  were  a  child  to  me, 
If  I  might  take  thee  in  these  arms 

And  face  the  flames  with  thee  ? 
The  priests  are  chanting  round  the  pyre. 

At  dusk  they  will  depart 
And  leave  to  thee  thy  lonely  rest, 
To  me  my  lonelier  heart. 

How  could  I  know 
Thou  lovedst  me  so? 
Upon  the  Sandal  pyre 
He  lies  forsaken. 
The  flames  have  taken 
My  Lallji,  my  desire  ! 


42 


Rutland  Gate 

His  back  is  bent  and  his  lips  are  blue, 

Shivering  out  in  the  wet : 
*'  Here  's  a  florin,  my  man,  for  you, 

Go  and  get  drunk  and  forget !  " 

Right  in  the  midst  of  a  Christian  land, 

Rotted  with  wealth  and  ease. 
Broken  and  draggled  they  let  him  stand 

Till  his  feet  on  the  pavement  freeze. 

God  leaves  His  poor  in  His  vicars'  care. 
For  He  hears  the  church-bells  ring. 

His  ears  are  buzzing  with  constant  prayer 
And  the  hymns  His  people  sing. 

Can  His  pity  picture  the  anguish  here. 
Can  He  see,  through  a  London  fog. 

The  man  who  has  worked  "  nigh  seventy  year 
To  die  the  death  of  a  dog  ? 

No  one  heeds  him,  the  crowds  pass  on. 

Why  does  he  want  to  live  ? 
"  Take  this  florin,  and  get  you  gone, 

Go  and  get  drunk,  —  and  forgive  !  " 

43 


>» 


Atavism 

Deep  in  the  jungle  vast  and  dim, 

That  knew  not  a  white  man's  feet, 

I  smelt  the  odour  of  sun-warmed  fur. 
Musky,  savage,  and  sweet. 

Far  it  was  from  the  huts  of  men 

And  the  grass  where  Sambur  feed ; 

I  threw  a  stone  at  a  Kadapu  tree 

That  bled  as  a  man  might  bleed. 

Scent  of  fur  and  colour  of  blood  :  — 
And  the  long  dead  instincts  rose, 

I  followed  the  lure  of  my  season's  mate,- 
And  flew,  bare-fanged,  at  my  foes. 


Pale  days  :  and  a  league  of  laws 
Made  by  the  whims  of  men. 

Would  I  were  back  with  my  furry  cubs 
In  the  dusk  of  a  jungle  den. 


44 


Middle-a 


The  sins  of  Youth  are  hardly  sins, 

So  frank  they  are  and  free. 
'  T  is  but  when  Middle-age  begins 

We  need  morality. 

Ah,  pause  and  weigh  this  bitter  truth  : 
That  Middle-age,  grown  cold, 

No  comprehension  has  of  Youth, 
No  pity  for  the  Old. 

Youth,  with  his  half-divine  mistakes. 

She  never  can  forgive. 
So  much  she  hates  his  charm  which  makes 

Worth  while  the  life  we  live. 

She  scorns  Old  Age,  whose  tolerance 
And  calm,  well-balanced  mind 

(Knowing  how  crime  is  born  of  chance) 
Can  pardon  all  mankind. 

Yet  she,  alas  !  has  all  the  power 

Of  strength  and  place  and  gold, 

Man's  every  act,  through  every  hour, 
Is  by  her  laws  controlled. 

45 


All  things  she  grasps  with  sordid  hands 
And  weighs  in  tarnished  scales. 

She  neither  feels,  nor  understands, 
And  yet  her  will  prevails ! 

Cold-blooded  vice  and  careful  sin, 
Gold-lust,  blind  selfishness, — 

The  shortest,  cheapest  way  to  win 

Some,  worse  than  cheap,  success. 

Such  are  her  attributes  and  aims. 

Yet  meekly  we  obey. 
While  she  to  guide  and  order  claims 

All  issues  of  the  day. 

You  seek  for  honour,  friendship,  truth? 

Let  Middle-age  be  banned  ! 
Go,  for  warm-hearted  acts,  to  Youth; 

To  Age,  —  to  understand  ! 


46 


The  Jungle  Flower 

Ah,  the  cool  silence  of  the  shaded  hours, 
The  scent  and  colour  of  the  jungle  flowers  ! 

Thou  art  one  of  the  jungle  flowers,  strange  and  fierce  and  fair. 
Palest    amber,    perfect    lines,    and    scented     with    champa 
flower. 

Lie  back  and  frame  thy  face  in  the  gloom  of  thy  loosened  hairj 
Sweet  thou  art  and  loved  —  ay,  loved  —  for  an  hour. 

But  thought  flies  far,  ah,  far,  to  another  breast. 

Whose  whiteness  breaks  to  the  rose  of  a  twin  pink  flower. 
Where  wind  the  azure  veins  that  my  lips  caressed 

When  Fate  was  gentle  to  me  for  a  too-brief  hour. 

There  is  my  spirit's  home  and  my  soul's  abode, 
The  rest  are  only  inns  on  the  traveller's  road. 


47 


From  Behind  the  Lattice 

I  SEE  your  red-gold  hair  and  know 

How  white  the  hidden  skin  must  be. 
Though  sun-kissed  face  and  lingers  show 
The  fervour  of  the  noon-day  glow, 
The  keenness  of  the  sea. 

My  longing  fancies  ebb  and  flow, 

Still  circling  constant  unto  this; 
My  great  desire  (ah,  whisper  low) 
To  plant  on  thy  forbidden  snow 
The  rosebud  of  a  kiss. 

The  scarlet  flower  would  spread  and  grow, 

Your  whiteness  change  and  flush, 
Be  still,  my  reckless  heart,  beat  slow, 
'T  is  but  a  dream  that  stirs  thee  so  ! ) 
To  one  transparent  blush. 


48 


Wings 


Was  it  worth  while  to  forego  our  wings 

To  gain  these  dextrous  hands  ? 
Truly  they  fashion  us  wonderful  things 

As  the  fancy  of  man  demands. 

But  —  to  fly  !  to  sail  through  the  lucid  air 

From  crest  to  violet  crest 
Of  these  great  grey  mountains,  quartz-veined  and  bare,' 

Where  the  white  clouds  gather  and  rest. 

Even  to  flutter  from  flower  to  flower,  — 

To  skim  the  tops  of  the  trees,  — 
In  the  rQseate  light  of  a  sun-setting  hour 

To  drift  on  a  sea-going  breeze. 

Ay,  the  hands  have  marvellous  skill 

To  create  us  curious  things, — 
Baubles,  playthings,  weapons  to  kill,  — 

But  —  I  would  we  had  chosen  wings  ! 


49 


Song  of  the  Parao  (Camping-ground) 

Heart,  my  heart,  thou  hast  found  thy  home ! 

From  gloom  and  sorrow  thou  hast  come  forth, 
Thou  who  wast  foolish,  and  sought  to  roam 

'Neath  the  cruel  stars  of  the  frozen  North. 

Thou  hast  returned  to  thy  dear  delights  ; 

The  golden  glow  of  the  quivering  days. 
The  silver  silence  of  tropical  nights. 

No  more  to  wander  in  alien  ways. 

Here,  each  star  is  a  well-loved  friend ; 
To  me  and  my  heart  at  the  journey's  end. 

These  are  my  people,  and  this  my  land, 

I  hear  the  pulse  of  her  secret  soul. 
This  is  the  hfe  that  I  understand, 

Savage  and  simple  and  sane  and  whole. 

Washed  in  the  light  of  a  clear  fierce  sun,  — 
Heart,  my  heart,  the  journey  is  done. 

See !  the  painted  piece  of  the  skies. 

Where  the  rose-hued  opal  of  sunset  lies. 
Hear  the  passionate  Koel  calling 
From  coral  trees,  where  the  dusk  is  falling. 

SO 


See  my  people,  slight  limbed  and  tall. 

The  maiden's  bosom  they  scorn  to  cover: 
The  breasts  that  shall  call  and  enthral  her  lover. 

Things  of  beauty,  are  free  to  all. 

Free  to  the  eyes,  that  think  no  shame 

That  a  girl  should  bloom  like  a  forest  flower. 

Who  hold  that  Love  is  a  sacred  flame, — 
Outward  beauty  a  God-like  dower. 

Who  further  regard  it  as  no  disgrace 
If  loveliness  lessen  to  serve  the  race. 
Nor  point  the  finger  of  jesting  scorn 
At  her  who  carries  the  child  unborn. 

Ah,  my  heart,  but  we  wandered  far 

From  the  light  of  the  slanting  fourfold  Stari 

Oh,  palm-leaf  thatch,  where  the  melon  thrives 
Beneath  the  shade  of  the  tamarind  tree, 
Thou  coverest  tranquil,  graceful  lives. 
That  want  so  little,  that  knew  no  haste. 

Nor  the  bitter  goad  of  a  too-full  hour ; 
Whose  soft-eyed  women  are  lithe  and  tall. 
And  wear  no  garment  below  the  knee, 

Nor  veil  or  raiment  above  the  waist. 
But  the  beautiful  hair,  that  dowers  them  all. 

And  falls  to  the  ground  in  a  scented  shower. 

The  youths  return  from  their  swift-flowing  bath, 

With  the  swinging  grace  that  their  height  allows, 

51 


Lightly  climbing  the  river-side  path, 

Their  soft  hair  knotted  above  their  brows. 

Elephants  wade  the  darkening  river, 

Their  bells,  which  tinkle  in  minor  thirds, 

Faintly  sweet,  like  passionate  birds 

Whose  warbling  wakens  a  sense  of  pain, — 

Thrill  through  the  nerves  and  make  them  quiver, — 
Heart,  my  heart,  art  thou  happy  again  ? 

Here  is  beauty  to  feast  thine  eyes. 

Here  is  the  land  of  thy  long  desire. 
See  how  the  delicate  spirals  rise 

Azure  and  faint  from  the  wood-fed  fire. 

Where  the  cartmen  wearily  share  their  food, 

Ere  they,  by  their  bullocks,  lie  down  to  rest. 

Heart  of  mine,  dost  thou  find  it  good 

This  wide  red  road  by  the  winds  caressed  ? 

This  lone  Parao,  where  the  fireflies  light  ? 
These  tom-toms,  fretting  the  peace  of  night  ? 

Heart,  thou  hast  wandered  and  suffered  much. 
Death  has  robbed  thee,  and  Life  betrayed. 

But  there  is  ever  a  solace  for  such 

In  that  they  are  not  lightly  afraid. 

The  strength  that  found  them  the  fire  to  love 

Finds  them  also  the  force  to  forget. 
Thy  joy  in  thy  dreaming  lives  to  prove 

Thou  art  not  mortally  wounded  yet. 

52 


Here,  'neath  the  arch  of  the  vast,  clear  sky. 

Where  range  upon  range  the  remote  grey  hills 

Far  in  the  distance  recede  and  die. 

There  is  no  space  for  thy  trivial  ills. 

On  the  low  horizon  towards  the  sea. 

Faint  yet  vivid,  the  lightnings  play, 
The  lucid  air  is  kind  as  a  kiss, 

The  falling  twilight  is  cool  and  grey. 
What  has  sorrow  to  do  with  thee  ? 
Love  was  cruel  ?  thou  now  art  free. 
Life  unkind  ?  it  has  given  thee  this  ! 


53 


The  Tom-toms 

Dost  thou  hear  the  tom-toms  throbbing, 

Like  a  lonely  lover  sobbing 

For  the  beauty  that  is  robbing  him  of  all  his  life's  delight  ? 

Plaintive  sounds,  restrained,  enthralling. 

Seeking  through  the  twilight  falling 

Something  lost  beyond  recalling,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

Oh,  my  little,  loved  Firoza, 

Come  and  nestle  to  me  closer. 

Where  the  golden-balled  Mimosa  makes  a  canopy  above, 

For  the  day,  so  hot  and  burning, 

Dies  avi^ay,  and  night,  returning, 

Sets  thy  lover's  spirit  yearning  for  thy  beauty  and  thy  love. 

Soon  vi^ill  come  the  rosy  warning 

Of  the  bright  relentless  morning. 

When,  thy  soft  caresses  scorning,  I  shall  leave  thee  in  the  shade. 

All  the  day  my  work  must  chain  me. 

And  its  weary  bonds  restrain  me. 

For  I  may  not  re-attain  thee  till  the  light  begins  to  fade. 

But  at  length  the  long  day  endeth, 

As  the  cool  of  night  descendeth 

His  last  strength  thy  lover  spendeth  in  returning  to  thy  breast, 

54 


Where  beneath  the  Babul  nightly, 
While  the  planets  shimmer  whitely, 

And  the  fire-flies  glimmer  brightly,  thou  shalt  give  him  love  and 
rest. 

Far  away,  across  the  distance, 

The  quick-throbbing  drums'  persistence 

Shall  resound,  with  soft  insistence,  in  the  pauses  of  delight. 

Through  the  sequence  of  the  hours, 

While  the  starlight  and  the  flowers 

Consecrate  this  love  of  ours,  in  the  Temple  of  the  Night. 


55 


Written  in  Cananore 

I 

Who  was  it  held  that  Love  was  soothing  or  sweet  ? 
Mine  is  a  painful  fire,  at  its  whitest  heat. 

Who  said  that  Beauty  was  ever  a  gentle  joy  ? 
Thine  is  a  sword  that  flashes  but  to  destroy. 

Though  mine  eyes  rose  up  from  thy  Beauty's  banquet,  calm  and 

refreshed. 
My  lips,  that  were  granted  naught,  can  find  no  rest. 

My  soul  was  linked  with  thine,  through  speech  and  silent  hours, 
As  the  sound  of  two  soft  flutes  combined,  or  the  scent  of  sister 
flowers. 

But  the  body,  that  wretched  slave  of  the  Sultan,  Mind, 
Who  follows  his  master  ever,  but  far  behind, 


Nothing  was  granted  him,  and  every  rebellious  cell 
Rises  up  with  angry  protest,  "  It  is  not  well ! 

Night  is  falling ;  thou  hast  departed ;  I  am  alone ; 
And  the  Last  Sweetness  of  Love  thou  hast  not  given  —  I  have 
not  known  !  " 

56 


II 

Somewhere,  Oh,  My  Beloved  One,  the  house  Is  standing, 

Waiting  for  thee  and  me ;  for  our  first  caresses. 

It  may  be  a  river-boat,  or  a  wave-washed  landing, 

The  shade  of  a  tree  in  the  jungle's  dim  recesses. 

Some  far-oft"  mountain  tent,  ill-pitched  and  lonely. 
Or  the  naked  vault  of  the  purple  heavens  only. 

But  the  Place  is  waiting  there ;  till  the  Hour  shall  show  it. 
And  our  footsteps,  following  Fate,  find  it  and  know  it. 

Where  we  shall  worship  the  greatest  of  all  the  Gods  in  his  pomp 

and  power, — 
I  sometimes  think  that  I  shall  not  care  to  survive  that  hour ! 


57 


Feroke 

The  rice-birds  fly  so  white,  so  silver  white, 
The  velvet  rice-flats  lie  so  emerald  green. 

My  heart  inhales,  with  sorrowful  delight. 

The  sweet  and  poignant  sadness  of  the  scene. 

The  swollen  tawny  river  seeks  the  sea. 

Its  hungry  waters,  never  satisfied, 
Beflecked  with  fallen  log  and  torn-up  tree, 

Engulph  the  fisher-huts  on  either  side. 

The  current  brought  a  stranger  yesterday. 

And  laid  him  on  the  sand  beneath  a  palm, 

His  worn  young  face  was  partly  torn  away. 

His  eyes,  that  saw  the  world  no  more,  were  calm 

We  could  not  close  his  eyelids,  stiff  with  blood, — 
But,  oh,  my  brother,  I  had  changed  with  thee  ! 

For  I  am  still  tormented  in  the  flood. 

Whilst  thou  hast  done  thy  work,  and  reached  the  sea. 


5? 


My  Desire 

Fate  has  given  me  many  a  gift 
To  which  men  most  aspire, 

Lovely,  precious  and  costly  things, 
But  not  my  heart's  desire. 

Many  a  man  has  a  secret  dream 
Of  where  his  soul  would  be, 

Mine  is  a  low  verandah'd  house 
In  a  tope  beside  the  sea. 

Over  the  roof  tall  palms  should  wave. 

Swaying  from  side  to  side. 
Every  night  we  should  fall  asleep 

To  the  rhythm  of  the  tide. 

The  dawn  should  be  gay  with  song  of  birds, 
And  the  stir  of  fluttering  wings. 

Surely  the  joy  of  life  is  hid 

In  simple  and  tender  things  ! 

At  eve  the  waves  would  shimmer  with  gold 

In  the  rosy  sunset  rays, 
Emerald  velvet  flats  of  rice 

Would  rest  the  landward  gaze. 

59 


A  boat  must  rock  at  the  laterite  steps 

In  a  reef-protected  pool, 
For  we  should  sail  through  the  starlit  night 

When  the  winds  were  calm  and  cool. 

I  am  so  tired  of  all  this  world, 

Its  folly  and  fret  and  care. 
Find  me  a  little  scented  home 

Amongst  thy  loosened  hair. 

Give  me  a  soft  and  secret  place 
Against  thine  amber  breast, 

Where,  hidden  away  from  all  mankind, 
My  soul  may  come  to  rest. 

Many  a  man  has  a  secret  dream 
Of  where  his  life  might  be; 

Mine  is  a  lovely,  lonely  place 
With  sunshine  and  the  sea. 


60 


Sher  Afzul 

This  was  the  tale  Sher  Afzul  told  to  me, 

While  the  spent  camels  bubbled  on  their  knees, 

And  ruddy  camp-fires  twinkled  through  the  gloom 
Sweet  with  the  fragrance  from  the  Sinjib  trees. 

I  had  a  friend  who  lay,  condemned  to  death 
In  gaol  for  murder,  wholly  innocent. 

Yet  caught  in  webs  of  luckless  circumstance ;  — 
Thou  know'st  how  lies,  of  good  and  ill  intent, 

Cluster  like  flies  around  a  justice-court. 

Wheel  within  wheel,  revolving  screw  on  screw ; 
But  from  his  prison  he  escaped  and  fled. 

Keeping  his  liberty  a  night  or  two 

Among  the  lonely  hills,  where,  shackled  still, 
He  braved  a  village,  seeking  for  a  file 

To  loose  his  irons  ;  alas  !  he  lost  his  life 

Through  the  base  sweetness  of  a  woman's  smile. 

Lovely  she  was,  and  young,  who  gave  the  youth 
Kind  words,  and  promised  succor  and  repose, 

Till  on  the  quilt  of  false  security 

He  found  exhausted  sleep ;  but,  ere  he  rose, 

6i 


Entered  the  guards,  brought  by  her  messenger. 

Thus  was  he  captured,  slain,  and  on  her  breast 
Soon  shone  the  guerdon  of  her  treachery, 

The  price  of  blood ;  in  gold  made  manifest. 

I  might  have  killed  her  ?     Brave  men  have  died  thus. 

Revenge  demanded  keener  punishment. 
So  I  walked  softly  on  those  lilac  hills. 

Touching  my  rhibah  lightly  as  I  went. 

I  found  her  fair:  'twas  no  unpleasant  task 

In  the  young  spring-time  when  the  fruit-trees  flower. 
To  pass  her  door,  and  pause,  and  pass  again. 

Shading  mine  eyes  against  her  beauty's  power. 

Warmly  I  wooed  her,  while  the  almond  trees 

Broke  into  fragile  clouds  of  rosy  snow. 
Her  dawning  passion  feared  her  lord's  return, 

Ever  she  pleaded  softly,  "  Let  us  go." 

But  I  spoke  tenderly,  and  said,  "  Beloved, 

Shall  not  thy  lips  give  orders  to  my  heart? 

Yet  there  is  one  small  matter  in  these  hills 
Claiming  attention  ere  I  can  depart. 

"  Let  us  not  waste  these  days ;  thine  absent  lord 
Cannot  return,  thou  know'st,  before  the  snow 

Has  melted,  and  the  almond  fruits  appear." 

This  time  she  answered,  "  Naught  but  thee  I  know  ! " 

I  too  was  young ;  I  could  have  loved  her  well 

When  her  soft  eyes  across  the  twilight  burned ; 

62 


But  suddenly,  around  her  amber  neck, 

The  golden  beads  would  sparkle  as  she  turned. 

And  I  remembered ;  swift  mine  eyelids  fell 

To  hide  the  hate  that  festered  in  my  soul. 

Ever  more  deeply,  with  the  rising  fear 

That  Love  might  wrench  Revenge  from  my  control. 

But  when  at  last  she,  acquiescent,  lay 

In  the  sweet-scented  shadow  of  the  firs. 

Lovely  and  broken,  granting  —  asking  —  all, 

It  was  hh  eyes  I  met  :  not  hers  —  not  hers  ! 


Three  months  I  waited :  all  the  village  talked, 
And  ever  anxiously  she  urged  our  flight. 

Vet  still  I  lingered,  till  her  beauty  paled. 
And  wearily  she  came  to  me  at  night. 

Then,  seeing  Love,  subservient  to  Revenge, 
Had  well  achieved  his  own  creative  end, 

And  in  his  work  must  soon  be  manifest. 

Compassing  thus  my  duty  to  my  friend. 

One  tranquil,  sultry  night  I  rode  away 

Till  far  behind  the  purple  hills  were  dim. 

Exulting  in  my  spirit,  "  Thus  I  leave 

Her  to  her  fate,  and  my  revenge  to  him !  " 

Swiftly  he  struck,  her  lord  ;  the  body  lay 

With  hacked-off  breasts,  dishonoured,  in  the  Pass. 

03 


Months  later,  riding  lonely  through  the  gorge, 
I  saw  it  still,  among  the  long-grown  grass. 

It  was  well  done ;  my  soul  is  satisfied. 

Friendship  is  sweet,  and  Love  is  sweeter  still, 
But  Vengeance  has  a  savour  all  its  own  — 

A  strange  delight  —  well  known  to  those  who  kill. 

Such  was  the  story  Afzul  told  to  me, 

While  wood-fires  crackled  in  the  evening  breeze. 
And  blows  on  hammered  tent-pegs  stirred  the  air 

Sweet  with  the  fragrance  from  the  Sinjib  trees. 

Tent-like,  above,  up-held  by  jagged  peaks, 
The  heavy  purple  of  the  tranquil  sky 

Shed  its  oft-broken  promises  of  peace. 

While  twinkling  stars  bemocked  the  worn-out  He ! 


64 


Nay,  not  To-night 


Nay,  not  to-night ;  —  the  slow,  sad  rain  is  falling 
Sorrowful  tears,  beneath  a  grieving  sky, 

Far  off  a  famished  jackal,  faintly  calling. 

Renders  the  dusk  more  lonely  with  its  cry. 

The  mighty  river  rushes,  sobbing,  seawards. 

The  shadows  shelter  faint  mysterious  fears, 

I  turn  mine  eyes  for  consolation  theewards. 
And  find  thy  lashes  tremulous  with  tears. 

If  some  new  soul,  asearch  for  Incarnation, 

Should,  through  our  kisses,  enter  Life  again, 

It  would  inherit  all  our  desolation. 

All  the  soft  sorrow  of  the  slanting  rain. 

When  thou  desirest  Love's  supreme  surrender. 
Come  while  the  morning  revels  in  the  light, 

Bulbuls  around  us,  passionately  tender. 

Singing  among  the  roses  red  and  white. 

Thus,  if  it  be  my  sweet  and  sacred  duty. 

Subservient  to  the  Gods'  divine  decree. 

To  give  the  world  again  thy  vivid  beauty, 
I  should  transmit  it  with  my  joy  in  thee. 
5  65 


I  could  not  if  I  would,  Beloved,  deceive  thee. 

Wouldst  thou  not  feel  at  once  a  feigned  caress  ? 
Yet,  do  not  rise,  I  vi^ould  not  have  thee  leave  me, 

My  soul  needs  thine  to  share  its  loneliness. 

Let  the  dim  starlight,  when  the  low  clouds  sunder, 
Silver  the  perfect  outline  of  thy  face. 

Such  faces  had  the  saints ;  I  only  wonder 

That  thine  has  sought  my  heart  for  resting-place. 


66 


The  Dying  Prince 


There  are  no  days  for  me  any  more,  for  the  dawn  is  dark  with 

tears, 
There  is  no  rest  for  me  any  more,  for  the  night  is  thick  with 

fears. 
There  are  no  flowers  nor  any  fruit,  for  the  sorrowful  locusts 

came, 
And  the  garden  is  but  a  memory,  the  vineyard  only  a  name. 

There  is  no  light  in  the  empty  sky,  no  sail  upon  the  sea. 

Birds  are  yet  on  their  nests  perchance,  but  they  sing  no  more  to 

me. 
Past  —  vanished  —  faded  away  — all  the  joys  that  were. 
My  youth  died  down  in  a  swift  decline  when  they  married  her 

to  despair. 

"  My  lord,  the  crowd  in  the  Audience  Hall ;  how  long  wilt  thou 

have  them  wait  ?  " 
I  have  given  my  father's  younger  son  the  guidance  of  the  State. 
"  The  steeds  are  saddled,  the  Captains  call  for  the  orders  of  the 

day." 
Tell  them  that  I  shall  ride  no  more  to  the  hunting  or  the  fray. 

67 


*'  Sweet  the  scent  of  the  Moghra  flowers ;  "  Brother,  it  may  be 

so. 
"  The  young,  flushed  spring  is  with  us  again."     Is  it  ?     I  did 

not  know. 
"  The  Zamorin's  daughter  draweth  near,  on  slender  golden  feet ;  " 
Oh,  a  curse  upon  all  sweet  things  say  I,  to  whom  they  are  no 

more  sweet ! 

Dost  think  that  a  man  as  sick  as  I  can  compass  a  woman's  ease  ? 
That  the  sons  of  a  man  who  is  like  to  me  could  ever  find  rest 

or  peace  ? 
Tell  them  to  marry  them  where  they  will,  if  their  longing  be  so 

sore. 
Such  are  the  things  that  all  men  seek,  but  I  shall  seek  no  more. 

All  my  muscles  are  fallen  in,  and  the  blood  deserts  my  veins, 
Every  fibre  and  bone  of  me  is  waxen  full  of  pains. 
The  iron  feet  of  mine  enemy's  curse  are  heavy  upon  my  head, 
Look  at  me  and  judge  for  thyself,  thou  seest  I  am  but  dead. 

"  Then,  who  is  it.  Prince,  who  has  done  this  thing,  has  sown 

such  a  bitter  seed. 
That  we  hale  him  forth  to  the  Market-place,  bind  him  and  let 

him  bleed. 
That  the  flesh  may  shudder  and  wince  and  writhe,  reddening 

'neath  the  rod." 
Love  is  the  evil-doer,  alas !  and  how  shalt  thou  scourge  a  God  ? 


68 


The  Hut 

Dear  little  Hut  by  the  rice-fields  circled. 
That  cocoa-nuts  shade  above. 

I  hear  the  voices  of  children  singing, 
And  that  means  love. 

When  shall  the  traveller's  march  be  over, 
When  shall  his  wandering  cease  ? 

This  little  homestead  is  bare  and  simple. 
And  that  means  peace. 

Nay  !  to  the  road  I  am  not  unfaithful ; 

In  tents  let  my  dwelling  be  ! 
I  am  not  longing  for  Peace  or  Passion 
From  any  one  else  but'thee, 
My  Krishna, 
Any  one  else  but  thee ! 


69 


My  Paramour  was  Loneliness 

My  paramour  was  loneliness 

And  lying  by  the  sea, 
Soft  songs  of  sorrow  and  distress 

He  did  beget  in  me. 

Later  another  lover  came 

More  meet  for  my  desire, 
"Radiant  Beauty"  was  his  name; 

His  sons  had  wings  of  fire  ! 


70 


The  Rice  was  under  Water 

The  Rice  was  under  water,  and  the  land  was  scourged  with  rain, 
The  nights  were  desolation,  and  the  day  was  born  in  pain. 
Ah,  the  famine  and  the  fever  and  the  cruel,  swollen  streams, 
I    had  died,  except    for    Krishna,  who   consoled    me  —  in    my 
dreams ! 

The  Burning-Ghats  were  smoking,  and  the  jewels  melted  down. 
The  Temples  lay  deserted,  for  the  people  left  the  town. 
Yet  I  was  more  than  happy,  though  passing  strange  it  seems, 
For  I  spent  my  nights  with  Krishna,  who  loved  me  —  in  my 
dreams ! 


71 


"Surface  Rights" 

Drifting,  drifting  down  the  River, 

Tawny  current  and  foam-flecked  tide, 

Sorrowful  songs  of  lonely  boatmen, 
Mournful  forests  on  either  side. 

Thine  are  the  outcrops'  glittering  blocks. 

The  quartz  where  the  rich  pyrites  gleam, 

The  golden  treasure  of  unhewn  rocks 
And  the  loose  gold  in  the  stream. 

But,  —  the  dim  vast  forests  along  the  shore, 
That  whisper  wonderful  things  o'  nights, - 

These  are  things  that  I  value  more. 
My  beautiful  "  surface  rights." 

Drifting,  drifting  down  the  River, — 
Stars  a-tremble  about  the  sky  — 

Ah,  my  lover,  my  heart  is  breaking. 

Breaking,  breaking,  I  know  not  why. 

Why  is  Love  such  a  sorrowful  thing  ? 

This  I  never  could  understand ; 
Pain  and  passion  are  linked  together. 

Ever  I  find  them  hand  in  hand. 

72 


Loose  thy  hair  in  its  soft  profusion, 

Let  thy  lashes  caress  thy  cheek, — 

These  are  the  things  that  express  thy  spirit, 
What  is  the  need  to  explain  or  speak  ? 

Drifting,  drifting  along  the  River, 

Under  the  light  of  a  wan  low  moon. 

Steady,  the  paddles  ;  Boatmen,  steady,  — 

Why  should  we  reach  the  sea  so  soon  ? 

See  where  the  low  spit  cuts  the  water, 
What  is  that  misty  wavering  light? 

Only  the  pale  datura  flowers 

Blossoming  through  the  silent  night. 

What  is  the  fragrance  in  thy  tresses  ? 

'T  is  the  scent  of  the  champa's  breath; 
The  meaning  of  champa  bloom  is  passion  — 

And  of  datura  —  death  ! 


Sweet  are  thy  ways  and  thy  strange  caresses. 
That  sear  as  flame,  and  exult  as  wine. 

But  I  care  only  for  that  wild  moment 

When  my  soul  arises  and  reaches  thine. 

Wistful  voices  of  wild  birds  calling  — 

Far,  faint  lightning  towards  the  West, — 

Twinkling  lights  of  a  Tyah  homestead,  — 
Ruddy  glow  on  a  girl's  bare  breast  — 

73 


Drifting  boats  on  a  mournful  River, 

Shifting  thoughts  in  a  dreaming  mind,  — 

We  two,  seeking  the  Sea,  together,  — 

When  we  reach  it,  —  what  shall  we  find  ? 


74 


Shivratri  (the  Night  of  Shiva) 

(While  the  procession  passed  at  Ramesram) 

Nearer  and  nearer  cometh  the  car 

Where  the  Golden  Goddess  towers, 
Sweeter  and  sweeter  grows  the  air 

From  a  thousand  trampled  flowers. 
We  two  rest  in  the  Temple  shade 

Safe  from  the  pilgrim  flood, 
This  path  of  the  Gods  in  olden  days 

Ran  royally  red  with  blood. 

Louder  and  louder  and  louder  yet 

Throbs  the  sorrowful  drum  — 
That  Is  the  tortured  world's  despair, 

Never  a  moment  dumb. 
Shriller  and  shriller  shriek  the  flutes. 

Nature's  passionate  need  — 
Paler  and  paler  grow  my  lips. 

And  still  thou  bid'st  them  bleed. 

Deeper  and  deeper  and  deeper  still. 

Never  a  pause  for  pain  — 
Darker  and  darker  falls  the  night 

That  golden  torches  stain, 

"5 


Closer,  ah  !  closer,  and  still  more  close, 
Till  thy  soul  reach  my  soul  — 

P'urther,  further,  out  on  the  tide 

From  the  shores  of  self-control. 

Glowing,  glowing,  to  whitest  heat. 

Thy  feverish  passions  burn, 
Fiercer  and  fiercer,  cruelly  fierce. 

To  thee  my  senses  yearn. 
Fainter  and  fainter  runs  my  blood 

With  desperate  fight  for  breath  — 
This,  my  Beloved,  thou  sayest  is  Love, 

Or  I  should  have  deemed  it  Death ! 


The  First  Wife 

Ah,  my  lord,  are  the  tidings  true, 

That  thy  mother's  jewels  are  shapen  anew  ? 

I  hear  that  a  bride  has  chosen  been, 
The  stars  consulted,  the  parents  seen. 

Had  I  been  childless,  had  never  there  smiled 
The  brilliant  eyes  from  the  face  of  a  child. 

Then  at  least  I  had  understood 

This  thing  they  tell  me  thou  findest  good. 

But  I  have  been  down  to  the  River  of  Death, 
With  painful  footsteps  and  shuddering  breath, 

Seven  times ;  thou  hast  daughters  three, 
And  four  young  sons  who  are  fair  as  thee. 

I  am  not  unlovely,  over  my  head 
Not  twenty  summers  as  yet  have  sped. 

'T  is  eleven  years  since  my  opening  life 
Was  given  to  thee  by  my  father's  wife. 

77 


Ah,  those  days  —  they  were  lovely  to  me, 
When  little  and  shy  I  waited  for  thee. 

Till  I  locked  my  arms  round  my  lover  above, 
A  child  in  form  but  a  woman  in  love. 

And  I  bore  thy  sons,  as  a  woman  should, 
Year  by  year,  as  is  meet  and  good. 

Thy  mother  was  ever  content  with  me  — 
And  Oh,  Beloved,  I  worshipped  thee ! 

And  now  it's  over;  alas,  my  lord, 
Better  I  felt  thy  sharpest  sword. 

I  hear  she  is  youthful  and  fair  as  I 

When  I  came  to  thee  in  the  days  gone  by. 

Her  breasts  are  firmer;  this  bosom  slips 
Somewhat,  weighted  by  children's  lips. 

But  they  were  thy  children.     Oh,  lord  my  king, 
Ah,  why  hast  thy  heart  devised  this  thing  ? 

I  am  not  as  the  women  of  this  thy  land. 
Meek  and  timid,  broken  to  hand. 

From  the  distant  North  I  was  given  to  thee. 
Whose  daughters  are  passionate,  fierce  and  free. 

78 


I  could  not  dwell  by  a  rival's  side, 
I  seek  a  bridegroom,  as  thou  a  bride. 

The  night  she  yieldeth  her  youth  to  thee. 
Death  shall  take  his  pleasure  in  me. 


79 


I  Arise  and  go  Down  to  the  River 

I  ARISE  and  go  down  to  the  River,  and  currents  that  come  from 

the  sea, 
Still  fx-esh  with  the  salt  of  the  ocean,  are  lovely  and  precious  to 

me. 
The  waters  are  silver  and   silent,  except  where  the    kingfisher 

dips, 
Or  the  ripples  wash  off  from  my  shoulder  the  reddening  stain  of 

thy  lips. 

Two  things  make  my  joy  at  this  moment :    thy  gold-coloured 

beauty  by  night. 
And  the  delicate  charm  of  the  River,  all  pale  in  the  day-breaking 

light. 
So  cool  are  the  waters'  caresses.     Ah,  which  is  the  lovelier,  — 

this  ? 
Or  the  fire  that  it  kindles  at  midnight,  beneath  the  soft  glow  of 

thy  kiss  ? 

Ah,  Love    has  a  mighty  dominion,  he    forges   with    passionate 

breath 
The  links  which  stretch  out  to  the  Future,  with  forces  of  life 

and  of  death. 

So 


But  great  is  the  charm  of  the  River,  so  soft  is  the  sigh  of  the 

reeds, 
They  give  me,  long  sleepless  from  passion,  the  peace  that  my 

weariness  needs. 

I  float  on  the  breast  of  my  River,  and  startle  the  birds  on  the 

edge. 
To  land  on  a  newly  found  island,  a  boat  that  is  caught  in  the 

sedge. 
The  rays  of  the  sun  are  still  level,  not  yet  has  the  heat  of  the  day 
Deflowered  the  mists  of  the  morning,  that  linger  in  delicate  grey. 

What  land  was  his  dwelling  whose  fancy  first  gave  unto  Paradise 

birth  ? 
He  never  had  swum  in   my  River,  or  else  he  had  fixed  it  on 

earth  I 
Oh,  grace  of  the  palm-tree  reflections.  Oh,  sense  of  the  wind 

from  the  sea ! 
Oh,  divine  and  serene  exultation  of  one  who  is  lonely  and   free  ! 

Ah,  delicate  breezes  of  daybreak,  so  scentless,  refreshing  and  free! 
And  yet  —  had  my  midnight  been  lonely  you  had  been  less  lovely 

to  me. 
This  coolness  comes  laden  with  solace,  because  I  am  hot  from 

the  fire. 
As  often  devotion  to  virtue  arises  from  sated  desire. 

Gautama  came  forth  from  his  Palace;   he  felt  the  night  wind  on  his 

face^ 
He  loathed^  as  he  left^  the  embraces^  the  softness  and  scent  of  the  place,, 
But^y  ah,,  if  his  night  had  been  loveless,,  ivith  no  one  to  solace  his  need,, 
He  never  had  written  that  sermon  which  men  so  devotedly  read. 

6  8i 


Ah,  River,  thy  gentle  persuasion  !  I  doubt  if  I  seek  any  more 
The  beauty  that  hurts  me  and  holds  me  beneath  the  low  roof  on 

the  shore. 
I  loved  thee,  ay,  loved  —  for  a  season,  but  thou,  was  it  love  or 

desire. 
The  glow  of  the  Sun  in  his  glory,  or  only  the  heat  of  a  fire  ? 

I  think  not  that  thou  wilt  regret  me,  for  thou  art  too  joyous  and 

fair. 
So  many  are  keen   to  caress  thee,  thy  passionate  midnights  to 

share. 
Thou  wilt  not  have  time  to  remember,  before  a  new  love-knot  is 

tied. 
The  stranger  who  loved  thee  and  left  thee,  who  drifted  awav  on 

the  tide. 

Two  things  I  have  found  that  are  lovely,  though  most  things  are 

sullen  and  grey  ; 
One:   Peace  —  but  what  mortal  has  found  him;  and  Passion  — 

but  when  would  he  stay  ? 
So  I  shall  return  to  my  River,  and  floating  at  ease  on  its  breast, 
Shall  find,  what  Love  never  has  given  —  a  sense  of  most  infinite 

rest. 

When  the  years  have  gone  by  and  departed,  what  thought  shall 

I  keep  of  this  land  ? 
A  curl  of  thy  waist-reaching-tresses  ?  a  flower  received  from  thy 

hand  ? 
Nay,  if  I  can  fathom  the  future,  I  fancy  my  relic  will  be 
Some  shell,  my  beloved  one,  the  River,  has  stol'n  from  the  store 

of  the  sea. 

82 


Listen,  Beloved 

Listen,  Beloved,  the  Casurinas  quiver, 

Each  tassel  prays  the  wind  to  set  it  free. 

Hark  to  the  frantic  sobbing  of  the  river. 
Wild  to  attain  extinction  in  the  sea. 

All  Nature  blindly  struggles  to  dissolve 

In  other  forms  and  forces,  thus  to  solve 

The  painful  riddle  of  identity. 

Ah,  that  my  soul  might  lose  itself  in  thee ! 

Yet,  my  Beloved  One,  wherefore  seek  I  union, 

Since  there  is  no  such  thing  in  all  the  world,- 
Are  not  our  spirits  linked  in  close  communion,  — 
And  on  my  lips  thy  clinging  lips  are  curled  ? 
Thy  tender  arms  are  round  my  shoulders  thrown, 
I  hear  thy  heart  more  loudly  than  my  own. 
And  yet,  to  my  despair,  I  know  thee  far. 
As  in  the  stellar  darkness,  star  from  star. 

Even  in  times  when  love  with  bounteous  measure 
A  simultaneous  joy  on  us  has  shed. 

In  the  last  moment  of  delirious  pleasure, 

Ere  the  sense  fail,  or  any  force  be  fled, 

My  rapture  has  been  even  as  a  wall. 

Shutting  out  any  thought  of  thee  at  all ! 

83 


My  being,  by  its  own  delight  possessed. 
Forgot  that  it  was  sleeping  on  thy  breast. 

Ay,  from  his  birth  each  man  is  vowed  and  given 
To  a  vast  loneliness,  ungauged,  unspanned, 
Whether  by  pain  and  woe  his  soul  be  riven, 

Or  all  fair  pleasures  clustered  'neath  his  hand. 
His  gain  by  day,  his  ecstasy  by  night, — 
His  force,  his  folly,  fierce  or  faint  delight, — 
Suffering  or  sorrow,  fortune,  feud,  or  care, — 
Whate'er  he  find  or  feel,  —  he  may  not  share. 

Lonely  we  join  the  world,  and  we  depart 
Even  as  lonely,  having  lived  alone. 

The  breast  that  feeds  us,  the  beloved  one's  heart. 

The  lips  we  kiss,  —  or  curse  —  alike  unknown. 

Ay,  even  these  lips  of  thine,  so  often  kissed, 

What  certitude  have  I  that  they  exist? 

Alas,  it  is  the  truth,  though  harsh  it  seems, 

I  have  been  loved  as  sweetly  in  my  dreams. 

Therefore  if  I  should  seem  too  fiercely  fond, 
Too  swift  to  love,  too  eager  to  attain. 

Forgive  the  fervour  that  would  forge  beyond 
The  limits  set  to  mortal  joy  and  pain. 

Knowing  the  soul's  unmeasured  loneliness, 

My  passion  must  be  mingled  with  distress. 

As  I,  despairing,  struggle  to  draw  near 

What  is  as  unattainable  as  dear. 

84 


Thirst  may  be  quenched  at  any  kindly  river. 

Rest  may  be  found  'neath  any  arching  tree. 
No  sleep  allures,  no  draughts  of  love  deliver 
My  spirit  from  its  aching  need  of  thee. 
Thy  sweet  assentiveness  to  my  demands, 
All  the  caressive  touches  of  thy  hands, — 
These  soft  cool  hands,  with  lingers  tipped  with  fire,  - 
They  can  do  nothing  to  assuage  desire. 

Sometimes  I  think  my  longing  soul  remembers 

A  previous  love  to  which  it  aims  and  strives, 
As  if  this  fire  of  ours  were  but  the  embers 

Of  some  wild  flame  burnt  out  in  former  lives. 
Perchance  in  earlier  days  I  did  attain 
That  which  I  seek  for  now  so  all  in  vain, 
Maybe  my  soul  with  thine  was  fused  and  wed 
In  some  great  night,  long  since  dissolved  and  dead. 

We  may  progress  ;  but  who  shall  answer  clearly 

The  riddle  of  the  endless  change  of  things. 

Perchance  in  other  days  men  loved  more  dearly. 

Or  Love  himself  had  wider  ways  and  wings. 
Maybe  we  gave  ourselves  with  less  control, 
Or  simpler  living  left  more  free  the  soul. 
So  that  with  ease  the  flesh  aside  was  flung, — 
Or  was  it  merely  that  Alankind  was  young  f 

Or  has  my  spirit  a  divine  prevision 

Of  vast  vague  passions  stored  in  days  to  be. 
When  some  strong  souls  shall  conquer  their  division 

And  two  shall  be  as  one,  eternally  ? 


Finding  at  last  upon  each  other's  breast, 
Unutterable  calm  and  infinite  rest, 
While  love  shall  burn  with  such  intense  a  glow 
That  both  shall  die,  and  neither  heed  or  know. 

Why  do  I  question  thus,  and  wake  confusion 

In  the  soft  thought  that  lights  thy  perfect  face, 
Ah,  shed  once  more  thy  perfumed  hair's  profusion. 
Open  thine  arms  and  make  my  resting  place. 
Lay  thy  red  lips  on  mine  as  heretofore, 
Grant  me  the  treasure  of  thy  beauty's  store. 
Stifle  all  thought  in  one  imperious  kiss,  — 
What  shall  I  ask  for  more  than  this,  —  and  this  ? 


S6 


oh,  Unforgotten  and  Only  Lover 

Oh,  unforgotten  and  only  lover, 

Many  years  have  swept  us  apart. 
But  none  of  the  long  dividing  seasons 

Slay  your  memory  in  my  heart. 
In  the  clash  and  clamour  of  things  unlovely 

My  thoughts  drift  back  to  the  times  that  were. 
When  I,  possessing  thy  pale  perfection, 

Kissed  the  eyes  and  caressed  the  hair. 

Other  passions  and  loves  have  drifted 

Over  this  wandering,  restless  soul. 
Rudderless,  chartless,  floating  always 

With  some  new  current  of  chance  control. 
But  thine  image  is  clear  in  the  whirling  waters — ^ 

Ah,  forgive  —  that  I  drag  it  there. 
For  it  is  so  part  of  my  very  being 

That  where  I  wander  it  too  must  fare. 

Ah,  I  have  given  thee  strange  companions. 

To  thee  —  so  slender  and  chaste  and  cool  — 

But  a  white  star  loses  no  glimmer  of  beauty 
In  all  the  mud  of  a  miry  pool 

87 


That  holds  the  grace  of  its  white  reflection  ; 

Nothing  could  fleck  thee,  nothing  could  stain, 
Thou  hast  made  a  home  for  thy  delicate  beauty 

Where  all  things  peaceful  and  lovely  reign. 

Doubtless  the  night  that  my  soul  remembers 

Was  a  sin  to  thee,  and  thine  only  one. 
Thou  thinkest  of  it,  if  thou  thinkest  ever. 

As  a  crime  committed,  a  deed  ill  done. 
But  for  me,  the  broken,  the  desert-dweller. 

Following  Life  through  its  underways, — 
I  know  if  those  midnights  thou  hadst  not  granted 

1  had  not  lived  through  these  after  days. 

And  that  had  been  well  for  me ;  all  would  say  so, 

What  have  I  done  since  I  parted  from  thee  ? 
But  things  that  are  wasted,  and  full  of  ruin. 

All  unworthy,  even  of  me. 
Yet,  it  was  to  me  that  the  gift  was  given. 

No  greater  joy  have  the  Gods  above, — 
That  night  of  nights  when  my  only  lover, 

Though  all  reluctant,  granted  me  love. 

For  thy  beauty  was  mine,  and  my  spirit  knows  it, 

Never,  ah,  never  my  heart  forgets. 
One  thing  fixed,  in  the  torrent  of  changing. 

Faults  and  follies  and  fierce  regrets. 
Thine  eyes  and  thy  hair,  that  were  lovely  symbols 

Of  that  white  soul  that  their  grace  enshrined. 
They  are  part  of  me  and  my  life  for  ever. 

In  every  fibre  and  cell  entwined. 

88 


Men  might  argue  that  having  known  thee 

I  had  grown  faithful  and  pure  as  thee, 
Had  turned  at  the  touch  of  thy  grace  and  glory 

From  the  average  pathways  trodden  by  me. 
Hadst  thou  been  kinder  or  I  been  stronger 

It  may  be  even  these  things  had  been  — 
But  one  thing  is  clear  to  my  soul  for  ever, 

I  owe  my  owning  of  thee  to  sin. 

Had  I  been  colder  I  had  not  reached  thee, 

Besmirched  the  ermine,  beflecked  the  snow  — 
It  was  only  sheer  and  desperate  passion 

That  won  thy  beauty  in  years  ago. 
And  not  for  the  highest  virtues  in  Heaven, 

The  utmost  grace  that  the  soul  can  name. 
Would  I  resign  what  the  sin  has  brought  me. 

Which  I  hold  glory,  and  thou  —  thy  shame. 

I  talk  of  sin  in  the  usual  fashion, 

But  God  knows  what  is  a  sin  to  me  — 
We  love  more  fiercely  or  love  more  faintly  — 

But  I  doubt  if  it  matters  how  these  things  be. 
The  best  and  the  worst  of  us  all  sink  under  — 

What  I  held  passion  and  thou  held'st  lust  — 
What  name  will  it  find  in  a  few  more  seasons. 

When  we  both  dissolve  in  an  equal  dust  ? 

If  a  God  there  be,  and  a  God  seems  needed 
To  make  the  beauty  of  things  like  thee, 

He  doubtless  also,  some  careless  moment. 
Mixed  the  forces  that  fashioned  me. 

89 


Also  He,  for  His  own  good  reason  — 

Though  I  care  little  how  these  things  are  — 
"Gave  me  thee,  in  those  few  brief  midnights. 

And  that  one  solace  He  never  can  mar. 

\ 

Ah  me,  the  stars  of  such  varying  heavens 

Have  watched  me,  under  such  alien  skies, 
Lay  thy  beauty  naked  before  me 

To  soothe  and  solace  my  world-worn  eyes. 
For  one  good  gift  to  me  has  been  given  — 

A  memory  accurate,  clear  and  keen, 
That  holds  the  vision,  perfect  for  ever 

In  charm  and  glory,  of  things  once  seen. 

So  I  hold  thee  there,  and  my  fancy  wanders 

To  each  known  beauty  and  blue-veined  place, 
I  know  how  each  separate  eyelash  trembles. 

And  every  shadow  that  sweeps  thy  face. 
And  this  is  a  joy  of  which  none  can  rob  me, 

This  is  a  pleasure  that  none  can  mar  — 
As  sweet  as  thou  wert,  in  that  long  past  midnight, 

Even  as  lovely  my  memories  are. 

Ah,  unforgotten  and  only  lover. 

If  ever  I  drift  across  thy  thought. 
As  even  a  vision  unloved,  unlovely. 

May  cross  the  fancy,  uncalled,  unsought, 
When  the  years  that  pass  thee  have  shown,  in  passing. 

That  my  love,  in  its  strength  at  least^  was  rare  — 
Wilt  thou  not  think  —  ah,  hope  of  the  hopeless  — 

E'en  as  thou  wouldst  not,  thou  wilt  not  —  care ! 

90 


Early  Love 


Who  says  I  wrong  thee,  my  half-opened  rose  ? 
Little  he  knows  of  thee  or  me,  or  love.  — 
I  am  so  tender  of  thy  fragile  youth. 
Yea,  in  my  hours  of  wildest  ecstasy. 
Keeping  close-bitted  each  careering  sense. 
Only  I  give  mine  eyes  unmeasured  law 
To  feed  them  where  they  will,  and  their  delight 
Was  curbed  at  first,  until  thy  tender  shame 
Died  in  the  bearing  of  thy  first  born  joy. 

I  am  not  cruel,  my  half-opened  rose. 
Though  in  the  sunshine  of  my  own  desire 
I  have  uncurled  thy  petals  to  the  light 
And  fed  the  tendrils  of  thy  dawning  sense 
With  delicate  caresses,  till  they  leave 
Thee  tremulous  with  the  newness  of  thy  joy. 
Sharing  thy  lover's  fire  with  innocent  flame. 

Others  will  wrong  thee,  that  I  well  foresee, 

Being  a  man,  knowing  my  fellow  men, 

And  they  who,  knowing,  would  blame  my  love  of  thee 

Contentedly  will  see  thy  beauty  given. 

When  the  world  judges  thou  art  ripe  to  wed, — 

91 


To  the  rough  rites  of  marriage,  to  the  pain 
And  grievous  weariness  of  child-getting, — 
This  shall  be  right  and  licit  in  their  eyes  — 
But  it  would  break  my  heart,  were  I  alive. 

Yea,  this  will  be ;  many  will  doubtless  share 
The  rose  whose  bud  has  been  my  one  delight, 
And  I  shall  not  be  there  to  shield  my  flower. 
Yet,  I  have  taught  thee  of  the  ways  of  men. 
Much  I  have  learnt  in  cities  and  in  courts, 
Winnowed  to  suit  thy  tender  brain,  —  is  thine, 
Thus  Life  shall  find  thee,  not  all  unprepared 
To  face  its  callous,  subtle  cruelties. 

Still,  —  it  will  profit  little ;  I  discern 

Thou  art  of  those  whose  love  will  prove  their  curse, 

—  Thou  sayest  thou  lovest  me,  to  thy  delight  ? 

Nay,  little  one,  it  is  not  love  as  yet. 

Dear  as  thou  art,  and  lovely,  thou  canst  not  love, 

Thy  later  loves  shall  show  the  truth  of  this. 

Ay,  by  sorne  subtle  signs  I  know  full  well 
That  thou  art  capable  of  that  great  love 
Whose  glory  has  the  light  of  unknown  heavens, 
And  makes  hot  Hell  for  those  who  harbour  it. 

Naught  I  can  say  could  save  thee  from  thyself, 
Ah,  were  I  half  my  age !     Yet  even  that. 
Had  been  too  old  for  thy  sweet  thirteenth  year. 

92 


Still,  thou  art  happy  now,  and  glad  thine  eyes, 
When,  as  the  lilac  evening  gains  the  sky, 
I  lay  thee,  'twixt  thine  own  soft  hair  and  me, 
Kissing  thy  senses  into  soft  delight. 
Ruffling  the  petals  of  my  half-closed  rose 
With  tender  touches,  and  perpetual  care 
That  no  wild  moment  of  mine  own  delight 
Deep  in  the  flower's  heart,  —  should  set  the  fruit. 

Ah,  in  the  days  to  come,  it  well  may  be. 

When  thou  shalt  see  thy  beauty  stained  and  torn 

By  the  harsh  sequel  of  some  future  love. 

Thy  thoughts  shall  stray  to  thy  first  lover's  grave. 

And  thou  shalt  murmur,  "  Ay,  but  that  was  love. 

They  were  most  wrong  who  said  he  did  me  wrong. 

Only  I  was  too  young  to  understand." 


93 


Vayu  the  Wind 

Ah,  Wind,  I  have  always  loved  thee 

Since  those  far  off  nights 
When  I  lay  beneath  the  vines 

A  prey  to  strange  delights, 
For  among  my  tresses 
Thy  soft  caresses 

Were  sweet  as  a  lover's  to  me. 

Later  thou  grewest  more  wanton,  or  I  more  shy, 

And  after  the  bath  I  drew  my  garments  close, 

Fearing  thy  soft  persuasion  amongst  my  hair 

When  thou  earnest  fresh  with  the  scent  of  some  ruffled  rose. 

Ah,  Wind,  thou  hast  lain  with  the  Desert, 
I  know  her  savour  well. 
And  the  spices  wherewith  she  scents  her  breasts  — 
She  who  has  known  such  countless  lovers 
Yet  rarely  borne  a  city  among  her  sands  — 

Thou  comest  as  one  from  a  night  of  love. 

Thy  breath  is  broken  and  hard, — 
Bringing  echoes  of  lonely  things. 

Vast  and  cruel,  that  the  soft  and  golden  sands 
Buried  beneath  thin  ripples  so  long  ago. 

94 


Ah,  Wind,  thou  hast  given  me  lovely  things, 
The  scent  of  a  thousand  flowers, 
And  the  heavy  perfume  of  pollen-laden  fields. 
Strange  snatches  of  u^ild  song  from  the  heart  of  the  dark  Bazaat 

That  thrilled  to  my  very  core, 
Till  I  threw  the  sheet  aside  and  rose  to  follow,  — 
But  whither,  or  what  ? 

Also,  Wind,  thou  broughtest  the  breath  of  the  sea. 

The  sound  of  its  myriad  waves. 
And  in  nights  when  I  lay  on  the  lonely  sands 
Stretching  mine  arms  to  thee, 

Thou  gavest  me  something  —  faint  and  vast  and  sweet, 
Something  ineffable,  wistful,  from  far  away. 
Elsewhere  —  Beyond  — 

And  thou  wast  kind  to  me  in  my  times  of  love, 
Cooling  my  lips 
That  my  lover  wore  away. 
While,  wafting  the  scent  from  his  divided  hair. 

Thou  show'dst  the  stars  between 
Far  away,  and  eclipsed  by  his  burning  eyes 
Even  the  stars. 

And  now  I  almost  foresee  the  place  and  the  hour 
When  I  shall  open  my  dying  lips  to  thee 
And  receive  a  last  cool  kiss. 
Afterwards,  Wind,  since  I  have  always  loved  thee, — 

Whirl  my  dust  to  the  scented  heart  of  a  moghra  flower. 
His  flower,  but,  ah,  thou  knowest,  — 
So  often  thy  kisses  have  mingled  with  his  and  mine. 

95 


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JOHN  LANE  COMPANY  ^^i^'V^^l 


Lyrics  &  Dramas 

By 

Stephen  Phillips 

Author  of  "Paolo  and  Francesca,"  etc. 


"Mr.  Phillips  has  made  the  poetic  drama  again  a 
living  thing  upon  the  stage.  His  tragedy,  'The 
King,'  is  the  most  vital  piece  of  work  he  has  given 
us  for  some  time.  All  lovers  of  Mr.  Phillips'  fame 
will  rejoice  in  this  new  volume." 

— New  York  Times. 

"A  new  volume  from  Stephen  Phillips  is  always 
of  prime  interest  to  lovers  of  the  poetic  drama." 

— New  York  Sun. 

"Early  in  1901  Edmund  Gosse  referred  to  Stephen 
Phillips  as  'by  far  the  most  interesting  figure  that 
has  become  prominent  in  English  poetry  within 
the  last  four  years.'  That  eminence  has  not  been 
dimmed  with  the  passage  of  fourteen  years." 

— SpringHeld  Republican. 

"That  Stephen  Phillips  is  still  the  greatest  living 
exponent  of  the  poetic  drama,  and  the  superior  of 
his  British  contemporaries  in  the  lyrical  form,  is 
amply  attested  in  'Lyrics  and  Dramas.' " 

— San  Francisco  Chronicle. 


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INDIA'S    LOVE    LYRICS 

By  Laurence  Hope 
The  Neiv  York  Commercial : 

Its  colors  are  elemental,  silver  and  gold  and  red.  It  is  heavy  with  the 
breath  of  citron  groves,  cool  with  the  tinkling  of  temple  bells,  and  the  air  of 
night,  and  the  cries  of  wild  peacocks  and  parrots.  ...  In  many  ways  this 
volume  of  translation  is  the  most  important  contribution  to  poetry  that  the 
season  has  as  yet  brought  forth. 
The  Baltimore  Sun: 

There  is  nothing  stale  or  hackneyed  In  this  book ;  newness,  freshness, 
and  variety  are  found  on  every  page.      These  poems  are  true  lyrics,  for  they 
give  us  true  glimpses  into  the  hearts  of  men. 
The  Chicago  Tribune: 

A  volume  of  passionate  love  poems  written  by  a  true  poet. 
The  Chicago  Inter-Ocean : 

They  are  in  several  metres,  handled  always  with  graceful  ease,  and  often 
with  intensity.      The  coloring  is  vivid  and  the  music  subtle.      The  book  is 
redolent  with  the  atmosphere  of  the  Arabian  Nights. 
The  Boston  E'vening  Transcript : 

Mr.  Hope  is  a  thorough  artist  to  his  fingertips, and  his  choice  of  words 
and  images  is  as  keen  and  exact  as  his  ability  to  adapt  Indian  literature  to  the 
more  prosaic  mood  and  tongue  of  the  Anglo-Saxon. 
The  Athenaum : 

Mr.  Hope  has  caught  admirably  the  dominant  notes  of  this  Indian  love 
poetry,  its  delirious  absorption  In  the  instant,  Its  out-of-door  air,  its  melancholy. 

STARS    OF    THE    DESERT 

By  Laurence  Hope 

The  Washington  Mirror: 

The  author  has  so  completely  infused  the  charm  of  the  Orient  into  this 
volume  that  one  is  transported  for  the  time  and  lost  in  the  poetic  beauty  of 
his  surroundings,  finds  no  jarring  chord   nor  Is   disposed  to  shrink  from  the 
frankness  of  this  translation  of  oriental  verse. 
The  Chicago  Tribune: 

It  is  still  a  question  whether  these  are  direct  translations  or  whether  they 
'.are  written  in  the  Hindu  style  by  Laurence  Hope.      Perhaps  she  ha«  done  for 
the  Hindu  poets  what  FitzGerald  did  for  Omar. 
The  Conser-Tjator : 

He  seems  to  exhale  an  oriental  atmosphere.      He  sings  musically.     I  can 
follow  the  delicate  strain  by  which  Hope  saves  himself  from  stepping  beyond 
the  bounds  of  a  vital  reserve. 
The  Nenv  York  Star : 

The  author  Is  imbued  with  the  glowing  passion  of  Eastern  romance. 
The  Neav  York  Globe  : 

The  theme,  in  almost  every  instance  love,  is  treated  with  feverish  abandon. 


AMERICA  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY 

W.  J.  DAWSON 


"The  poem  which  gives  title  bids  fair  to  become  a  patri- 
otic classic." — Newark  Evening  Star. 

"There  are  many  moods  in  these  poems,  dramatic,  ten- 
der, grave,  idealistic." — The  Continent. 

"Charm  of  description  allied  with  rh>i;hm  and  a  free 
fancy  characterize  'America  and  Other  Poems.'  " — Detroit 
Free  Press. 

"The  simplicity  of  sincerity,  viath  musical  metres  and 
fitness  of  word  choice,  make  'America  and  Other  Poems, 
noteworthy  among  the  new  books  of  verse." — New  York 
Sun. 

"Dr.  Dawson  has  force  and  grace  and  a  fine  command 
of  the  narrative  manner.  With  the  simplest  words  he  can 
paint  an  unforgettable  picture  and  make  the  reader  lit' 
erally  feel  the  suffering  which  has  inspired  some  of  his 
finest  efforts." — San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"There  is  poetry  in  every  page  dependent  not  so  much 
on  graceful  and  potent  phrase  and  rhythm — though  of 
these  there  is  no  lack — as  in  a  vigor  of  thought  and  ex- 
pression direct  enough  to  enlist  ready  and  confident  belief. 
The  lines  ring  true;  they  sink  deep  into  the  spirit  and  the 
understanding." — Hartford  Courant. 

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